The afternoon passed slowly, as afternoons in Lower Ashmark always did. Dust had managed to stretch his remaining bread into three small portions, eating one piece as the sun reached its highest point and saving the others for evening and morning. The discipline of rationing had become second nature to him—a survival skill learned through too many hungry nights.
He spent the rest of the day wandering the market square, watching for opportunities. Sometimes merchants dropped things, and if you were quick and quiet, you could return the item for a copper piece or two. Sometimes they needed an extra pair of hands for a few minutes. Sometimes they just needed someone to watch their stall while they relieved themselves.
But today, luck wasn't with him. The merchants seemed suspicious, the guards more watchful than usual, and by the time the sun began to sink toward the horizon, Dust's pockets held the same two copper coins they'd started with, minus the cost of his bread.
As evening settled over the city, Dust made his way back toward his usual sleeping spot. The alley between the baker's shop and the clockmaker's had served him well for the past few weeks—hidden enough to avoid the night watch, but close enough to the main streets that he could hear trouble coming.
He was halfway there when he heard the voices.
"—told you, we don't have it!"
"And I told you, that's not my problem."
Dust pressed himself against the wall of a narrow side street, peering around the corner. Three men in rough clothes had cornered an old woman near the fountain. Even in the dim light, he could see the fear in her posture, the way she clutched a small basket against her chest.
"My husband's sick," the woman was saying, her voice shaking. "We used what little coin we had for medicine. Please, just give us another few days—"
"Days?" The largest of the three men laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You've had weeks. Mr. Garrett's patience isn't infinite."
Dust knew he should walk away. This wasn't his business, and getting involved would only bring trouble he couldn't afford. Street kids who stuck their noses where they didn't belong usually ended up with broken noses—or worse.
But something in the old woman's voice reminded him of Mrs. Henderson, the only person in Lower Ashmark who'd ever shown him consistent kindness. She'd given him work when she could, food when he was desperate, and never once called him worthless.
Before he could think better of it, Dust was moving.
"Excuse me," he called out, stepping into the square with his hands visible and empty. "Mrs. Clara?"
The woman looked up, confused. Dust had never seen her before in his life, but he kept talking.
"Your husband sent me to find you. He's feeling better and wants you to come home." He looked at the three men with the innocent expression he'd perfected over years of talking his way out of trouble. "Is everything alright here?"
The largest man studied Dust with narrow eyes. "This doesn't concern you, boy."
"Oh, I'm not concerned," Dust said quickly. "I just promised Mr. Henrik I'd find his wife. He was worried when she didn't come back." He paused, as if something had just occurred to him. "Actually, aren't you Garrett's men? My uncle works for him sometimes. Big operation, lots of... connections."
It was a complete lie, but Dust delivered it with the casual confidence of someone who knew more than he was saying. The three men exchanged glances, suddenly uncertain.
"Your uncle?" the leader asked.
"Mmm." Dust nodded vaguely. "Anyway, Mrs. Clara, shall we go? Henrik's waiting."
The old woman, bless her, caught on quickly. "Yes," she said, clutching her basket tighter. "Yes, let's go."
The three men watched as Dust offered the woman his arm and began walking away, but they didn't follow. Dust kept his pace steady, casual, until they were well out of sight. Only then did he allow his shoulders to relax.
"Thank you," the woman whispered. "I don't know who you are, but—"
"It's alright," Dust said softly. "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head. "Just frightened. They want money we don't have." She looked at him with curious eyes. "You don't have an uncle who works for Garrett, do you?"
Dust almost smiled. "No, ma'am. I don't have anyone."
They walked in comfortable silence until they reached a small house near the edge of Lower Ashmark. The woman—apparently her name really was Clara—turned to face him.
"I don't have much," she said, reaching into her basket. "But here." She pressed something wrapped in cloth into his hands. "It's not enough to repay what you did, but..."
Dust unwrapped the bundle to find a small meat pie, still warm. His mouth watered instantly. "I can't take this."
"You can and you will," Clara said firmly. "And if you ever need a place to rest—just for a night, mind you—you remember where Clara lives."
Before Dust could protest further, she disappeared into her house, leaving him standing alone with the precious gift in his hands.
He ate the pie slowly, savoring every bite, sitting on the cathedral steps under the pale light of the rising moon. It was the best thing he'd tasted in months.
As he settled into his alley for the night, wrapping his patched cloak around him, Dust reflected on the strange day. He'd earned honest work, helped a stranger, and been rewarded with unexpected kindness.
Maybe, just maybe, tomorrow would be different too.