The lamps lined the street like a string of tired stars, each flame pushed sideways by the dawn wind. I followed them, one step behind another, ribs aching with the rhythm. The bread's warmth had faded from my hand but not my chest. It carried me farther than strength alone could.
Shadows moved ahead. One figure among them carried a stride I recognized, though I had no word for recognition then. It was the one who had crouched beside me in the dark, who had wrapped my wound in cloth and given me the command to follow the light.
He turned at the sound of my uneven step. His face was worn, carved by years of weather and labor. His eyes carried the weight of men who see more than they wish. For a heartbeat, he simply looked at me, perhaps doubting I was the same half-collapsed figure from the night before.
"You lived." The words were not warm, but not cold either. They were an observation, as if he had not decided yet whether it was good or ill.
"I lived," I echoed, though the word tasted strange.
He stepped closer, gaze narrowing. "What are you still doing in these streets? Thought you'd have crawled off by now—or been carried."
I shook my head. "Carried… where?"
He studied me as if weighing whether the question was honest or mocking. "Depends on who finds you. The Watch—off to the pits. The mill—worse."
The word stirred in me again, the same one the patrol had spoken. Mill. Known but empty. I let the silence hang, unable to shape a reply.
He sighed through his teeth. "Don't even know enough to fear it. Figures."
***
Narrative POV
The man had reason to watch the alleys. Years ago, his younger brother had slipped from their home after a quarrel, chasing the promise of work and escape. The Watch caught him in a sweep, and he was never seen again. Word on the street was simple: the mill had taken him. That was where runaways went when the coin ran thin. Grain wasn't all it ground.
Since then, the man's gaze lingered longer than most when he passed the broken and the lost. He never said why. Mercy is rarely logical; it is a wound that refuses to close.
Narrative POV END
***
He shifted, rubbing the back of his neck as if regretting even speaking to me. "You look worse than yesterday. What'd you do, pick a fight with the cobblestones?"
"Walked," I said.
He barked out something like a laugh, though it held little humor. "Walked. Right. And where were you planning to walk to, with nothing in your hand and no roof to aim for?"
I blinked at him, words faltering. My hand went to the strip of paper around my bandage. "Toward the lamps."
He tilted his head, then shook it, muttering under his breath. "Strange one, you are. Stranger than most."
We stood in the quiet for a breath too long. People were starting to stir around us—merchants setting up stalls, a woman scolding her child, the first rattle of cart wheels on stone. Their eyes cut toward us, then away, the way people look at accidents they'd rather not claim.
He noticed too. His jaw worked. Then he said, "Come on. Can't leave you standing here like a broken signpost."
I followed.
***
The street bent into a narrower lane where houses leaned together overhead, their upper floors threatening to meet. He walked with the ease of one who knew each crack and puddle. I trailed behind, each step a quiet battle between ribs, breath, and will.
"You got a name?" he asked suddenly.
I opened my mouth, but no word came. Name. I had once had more than a name—I had been more than names could carry. But now? The silence between us grew awkward.
"You don't know it," he guessed.
I shook my head.
"Or you won't say."
"Both," I managed.
He frowned but didn't press. "Well, folk here won't waste a bowl on someone nameless. Makes you harder to blame when things go missing, harder to bury when things go wrong. So you'll need one sooner or later."
I nodded, though the thought of speaking a false word as self felt heavier than I could manage.
We turned another corner. A shutter banged open overhead, and a woman's voice hissed down. "That one again? Best let the Watch take him before he drags you under, too."
The man didn't look up. "Mind your window, Lira."
"Mind your fool's heart, Jareth," she snapped. "Kindness don't keep bread on the table."
He clenched his jaw, saying nothing until we were past.
***
Narrative POV
In streets like these, mercy was considered a weakness. To help the nameless was to invite suspicion: that you harbored thieves, or sheltered deserters, or consorted with cults. Neighbors whispered, and whispers traveled faster than carts. Jareth knew the price of pity. He had paid it once already. Yet still he paid again, coin slipping from a purse long since emptied.
Narrative POV END
***
He led me into a courtyard hemmed by leaning walls. A water pump sat crooked in the center, its handle wrapped in rope to keep it from slipping free. Children's chalk scribbles stained the stones, half-washed by rain.
Jareth stopped near the pump and turned to face me. His expression carried resignation more than welcome. "You hungry?"
I hesitated. Admitting it felt like admitting weakness, though my body shouted it plain enough. "…Yes."
He grunted, as if the answer were both obvious and unsatisfying. He reached into his coat, pulling free a heel of bread wrapped in cloth. Not fresh like the baker's, but it smelled of safety all the same.
I reached for it, but he didn't let go immediately. His eyes bored into mine. "You understand what it means, me handing you this? Means you're not just another shadow on these streets. Means someone might start asking questions if they see you keep walking behind me. You bring trouble to my door, I'll regret this."
I nodded.
Only then did he release it.
The bread was dry, but my mouth watered as if it were a feast day. I ate slowly, careful not to choke, each swallow settling something restless in me.
"You really don't remember where you're from?" Jareth asked, watching as I ate.
"No."
"No family?"
I shook my head.
He exhaled, long and low. "Then you're either blessed to forget or cursed to be forgotten. Maybe both."
The words hung heavy. I didn't know how to answer them, so I stayed quiet.
***
Narrative POV
To Jareth, the boy was both mirror and wound. His brother had disappeared without trace—swallowed by the mill, or the Watch, or worse. Looking at the boy now, ragged and empty-eyed, was like staring at the ghost of what might have been saved if only he'd been braver, faster, louder that night. Mercy was his punishment as much as his choice.
Narrative POV END
***
A cart rumbled past the mouth of the courtyard, iron wheels grinding stone. The sound scattered the quiet between us. Jareth glanced toward it, then back at me.
"You're a fool for surviving here without coin or name. But you're my fool now, I suppose. Can't have you collapsing in another alley and making me explain why I didn't finish the job last night."
I frowned. "Job?"
"Binding your hand. Keeping you alive. Might as well see it through."
I lowered my gaze to the bread in my hand. The crust had cut my lip, left it bleeding faintly, but I did not mind. Pain was smaller when shared with food.
He rubbed his temples, muttering something I couldn't catch, then finally said, "Come on. Before someone decides to count you missing."
I followed again.
***
Narrative POV
They say the city wakes with the sun, but it was already awake, just shifting from one kind of life to another. The drunkards had stumbled home, the night-sellers were shuttering their wares, and the day's laborers stretched arms gone stiff from sleep. Between them moved men with eyes always watching, boots always counting—patrols and collectors.
In this quarter, no kindness went unnoticed. The Watch marked who fed strays, who sheltered the weak, who gave coin without return. Levies were rising again; the Crown demanded coin for troops or idols or both. Men whispered that even gods demanded their share, their tithe taken in bodies when gold ran dry.
For Jareth, every act of mercy was a wager. For the boy, it was the difference between walking and falling. Neither could yet see the cost collecting on the horizon.
Narrative POV END
The lamps guttered one by one as daylight swallowed them. Still I walked, still he led, and for the first time since the fall, I was not walking alone.