May, 2025
Hugo Hollands, Age 24
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There's so much of my life I can't remember anymore. Faces, rooms, entire seasons blurred into nothing. Sometimes I think that's a mercy. Forgetting can be its own kind of kindness. If I could trade what's left of my memories for silence—real silence, the kind that lets you fall asleep without seeing ghosts behind your eyelids—I'd do it without hesitation.
The shelter air was thick and sour when I opened my eyes. It always smelled faintly of sweat, disinfectant, and the kind of despair that clung to people who'd run out of options. My bed groaned when I moved, the metal frame pressing through the thinning mattress until I could feel its bones against my back. I turned slowly, careful not to wake the man on the bunk above me. He was snoring, one arm hanging over the edge like a warning sign.
It was four in the morning.
I swung my legs down, feet meeting the cold concrete. The floor was always damp here, as if the building itself perspired. I sat for a moment, elbows on my knees, trying to gather the will to move. The whir of the ceiling fan stuttered overhead, dust thick on its blades. Someone coughed in the far corner, then went still again.
The bathroom light flickered. The cracked mirror gave me back a pale face and ringed eyes. I splashed water— the tap squealed like a wounded thing. The water was cold, shockingly so, enough to sting the sleep from my skin.
I brushed my teeth, fixed my hair with wet fingers, and tried to look like a person who hadn't given up yet.
Back by my bed, I pulled on the hoodie hanging from the bunk's rail. Its color had long faded from blue to something that didn't quite have a name anymore. The hem was frayed, and the sleeves bore the faint smell of smoke that never really washed out. My shorts were torn at one pocket, my shoes scuffed, soles thinning from the long walks to work and back.
I stepped outside quietly, closing the door behind me before the hinges could creak. The air hit me—warm, but edged with an early chill. Ebonreach in May was a strange kind of weather: heavy with warmth by day, haunted by cold before dawn. The sky was a deep indigo, stars fading as the horizon began to pale.
The city dozed with one eye open. Somewhere, a bus rattled down an empty street. Somewhere else, a stray dog barked. I could smell the river before I saw it—a faint tang of rust and brine that clung to the wind.
I lit a cigarette as I walked. The first drag always hurt a little, like the body reminding me I wasn't supposed to find comfort in this. The smoke tasted of burnt paper and habit. I kept walking, hands deep in my pockets, shoulders hunched against the breeze.
The warehouse was almost an hour away on foot. If I wasn't there by five-thirty, the supervisor would dock my pay. He smiled when he docked pay, like other people's losses sweetened his coffee. I'd learned not to give him the satisfaction of arguing.
The pay barely covered the week. Cigarettes, instant noodles, a few coins tucked away for something I couldn't even name. Living wasn't really living anymore; it was just a cycle of enduring. But I told myself it was fine. It had to be fine.
As I passed under a streetlamp, the light caught the smoke from my cigarette and made it look like mist. I imagined, for a second, that it was something leaving me—some small grief escaping with each breath. But when I exhaled, it was still there. The ache didn't lift. It never did.
The road ahead stretched long and empty. I could already see the faint outlines of the docks beyond the fog, the warehouse roofs cutting jagged shapes against the dull sky. Somewhere behind those buildings, the sea waited—black, endless, patient.
I kept walking toward it, the rhythm of my steps and the drag of smoke the only things keeping time. The city began to wake behind me, slow and reluctant, as if it too didn't want to face another day.
And maybe that was the one thing we shared—Ebonreach and I. Both of us carrying too much memory to start over, too little hope to stop.
The warehouse loomed ahead like a sleeping animal—hulking, silent, its edges glinting faintly with dew under the sodium lights. I slipped in through the back door, the metal handle cold against my palm. Inside, the air changed. It always smelled the same here: oil, dust, and cardboard. The kind of smell that clung to your skin even after a shower, if you were lucky enough to get one that night.
I moved through the corridor toward the changing room. The walls were lined with lockers dented from years of use, their paint peeling in strips like old bark. My uniform hung where I left it yesterday, stiff with dried sweat and detergent that never quite worked. I changed quickly, the sound of the zipper slicing through the quiet, and tied the laces of my work boots with the slow precision of someone stretching time before the day began.
The schedule was pinned crookedly to the door—paper yellowed from the damp, corners curling. My name sat halfway down the list. Picking and packing. Again.
I sighed, low enough not to echo, and stepped out into the main floor.
The warehouse lights were already awake, humming overhead in long lines that cast a pale, artificial dawn across the concrete. The aisles seemed to stretch forever—tall shelves stacked with boxes that reached toward the rafters, labeled in marker and dust. Somewhere a radio played faintly, some old pop song drowned by the clatter of carts and the rhythmic hiss of a forklift reversing.
Picking duty meant the usual: pulling orders from the rows, scanning barcodes, loading boxes onto metal trolleys. The scanner beeped with every product I logged, a shrill sound that cut through the thick air. I moved on instinct—reach, lift, check, stack, repeat. My shoulders ached before an hour had passed, but my body had learned not to complain.
The cartons were rough against my palms, tiny splinters catching the skin. Sweat gathered at the back of my neck, dampening the collar of my uniform. I wiped it away with the side of my arm and kept moving.
Halfway through the third aisle, Marco joined me. He was older, with a gut that strained his vest and a face that always looked like it was about to break into laughter, though I never figured out at whose expense.
"Morning, pretty boy," he said, slapping the back of my shoulder hard enough to jolt me.
"Morning," I muttered, eyes on the scanner.
"You're early, huh? I figured you'd still be dreaming of women and money."
"Neither," I said. "Dreams cost extra."
He laughed, a sharp, raspy sound that echoed off the metal racks. "You've got a mouth on you, pretty boy. Gotta watch that."
I gave him a thin smile, just enough to keep him amused, and lifted another box onto the trolley. He started talking about his weekend—beer, cards, a fight at the bar that he swore he didn't start. I nodded in the right places, half-listening, half-counting the boxes in my head.
It was easier that way. Keep the rhythm, keep the mind quiet.
"Hey," Marco said after a while. "You still living at that dump down by the bridge?"
"Yeah."
"Thought so. You should come out sometime. The guys go drinking on Fridays. Good way to forget you work here."
I didn't answer right away. The idea of drinking with men who laughed too loudly and talked too much about things they'd never fix didn't appeal to me. But saying no always drew more questions.
"Maybe," I said finally.
He grinned. "You say that every week."
"Then maybe I mean it every week."
He laughed again, louder this time, and walked off toward the loading bay, still chuckling. His voice carried for a while before it was swallowed by the mechanical roar of the forklifts.
I kept working. The repetition was numbing, but in its own way, it was peace. The sound of boxes shifting, the steady thump of boots against concrete, the scanner's pulse—it all blurred into a kind of order. The world made sense here, even if just through motion.
Sometimes I wondered how long a person could live like this—moving, stacking, breathing, but never quite living. But I didn't let the thought linger. There were still twelve pallets left on the sheet, and if I didn't finish before the end of the shift, I'd lose part of the pay I already couldn't survive without.
So I kept going. Box after box, hour after hour, until the noise of the place faded into a steady heartbeat that wasn't quite my own.
Lunch break was the only part of the day that didn't feel like punishment. The warehouse siren rang at noon, its shrill note cutting through the sound of forklifts and the endless tremor of machines. Everyone moved toward the cafeteria in a slow, tired wave, steel-toed boots scuffing against the floor, the smell of sweat giving way to something that almost resembled food.
It wasn't much, but they fed us well here. Yesterday it had been grilled chicken with Mexican rice and a little salad on the side—simple, but good enough that I'd scraped the container clean. Today the air smelled of tomato sauce and butter, and my stomach responded before my thoughts caught up. The line moved quickly. Each of us received a foam container, still hot at the bottom, and a can of iced tea that sweated cold in my palm.
The room looked like a high school cafeteria stripped of any joy. Long plastic tables, metal chairs, the steady rumble of an air conditioner that hadn't been cleaned in years. I found my usual spot with Marco, Gareth, and Kane. All of them older, louder, each with the permanent squint of men who'd seen too much sun and not enough rest.
"Pasta Bolognese and garlic bread," Gareth announced as if reading a prize list.
"Better than last week's meatloaf," Marco said, already halfway through his first bite.
I smiled, sitting across from him. The pasta was hot, the sauce sweet with too much tomato paste, but I didn't mind. Hunger made everything taste like a luxury.
They started talking about yesterday's football match, trading names of players and scores between mouthfuls. I only half listened, nodding when it felt polite. Football didn't hold much meaning for me anymore, though it used to, through Harry. He played midfield now on his college team. He'd called me a few weeks ago, voice bright with pride, telling me how he'd scored twice in the same game. I'd said I'd come see him one day, but that day hadn't arrived yet.
I could picture him now—hair shorter, taller than the last time I saw him, running across a field somewhere under a gentler sun. It felt like a memory that hadn't happened yet, one I kept trying to earn.
When the food was gone, the conversation turned to lighter things. Marco leaned back, rubbing his stomach. "Alright, pretty boy," he said with a grin. "Show us a trick."
That was our ritual. Every few days, after the last bite and the first sigh of satisfaction, they'd ask for it. And every time, I pretended to hesitate, even though I waited for it—waited for it the way a starving man waits for bread.
"Alright," I said, fishing the stack of cards from my back pocket. The edges were worn soft from use, the surface faintly smudged with fingerprints. They felt alive in my hands. I shuffled once, twice, the sound crisp in the air.
"Pick one," I said, spreading them out like a fan toward Marco.
He raised an eyebrow. "Don't mess with me, pretty boy. I'll know if you cheat."
I smiled faintly. "That's the idea."
He chose a card—queen of spades—and slid it back into the deck. I closed the spread, gave the cards a few gentle taps, and began the movements that had become second nature: cut, slide, flick, fold. My fingers moved without thought, each motion an echo of the boy I once was, sitting on a floor under a flickering lamp, believing magic could save him.
The queen appeared between my fingers like a whisper. I made it vanish again, turning my hand palm-up, empty. Marco blinked, then laughed through a mouthful of air.
"Hold on, where the hell—"
I tapped his shoulder and let the card slip from behind his ear.
He jumped back, shouting, "You sneaky bastard!"
Gareth let out a low whistle, his grin splitting across his face. Kane chuckled, slow and heavy, shaking his head.
"Do another one," Gareth said, still chewing on his garlic bread.
I obliged. The next trick was a simpler one—two cards switching places, the illusion built on timing and misdirection. Their eyes followed every motion, suspicious, eager. When I revealed the outcome, their laughter filled the air, rich and full. Even the men at the next table turned to look, some smiling without knowing why.
That laughter stayed with me more than any applause could. It was proof that I existed in this place, even for a few minutes.
Marco slapped the table with a wide grin. "You should be on TV with that, pretty boy."
"Maybe one day," I said, slipping the deck back into my pocket.
He smirked. "You get famous, don't forget us poor bastards."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
The break bell rang then, harsh and metallic, snapping us back to reality. Chairs scraped, containers clattered into bins, conversations faded to mutters. I stood, finishing the last sip of iced tea, its sweetness now flat on my tongue.
Back to work. Boxes, labels, dust.
But as I walked, I caught myself smiling. Small, involuntary, the kind of smile that lingered even when the day resumed its weight.
Maybe there wasn't much magic left in the world. But for a few minutes at lunch, in that stale warehouse filled with laughter and the hum of machines, I could still make something appear out of nothing.
By three in the afternoon, the second shift had begun to filter in, boots thudding against the concrete like a change in weather. The air in the warehouse shifted with them—more voices, more motion. My hands were raw from lifting, my shoulders tight with the kind of ache that only settles after hours of repetition.
I clocked out, grateful to step away from the noise, and headed toward the changing room. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, pale and uneven, flickering just enough to make everything feel suspended between exhaustion and afterthought. The room smelled of detergent, metal, and faint traces of sweat too old to be scrubbed out.
Marco was already there, leaning against the lockers with his shirt unbuttoned halfway and a grin carved across his face. "Give me your uniform," he said, wagging a finger at me. "I'll have my wife wash it for you and bring it back tomorrow."
I shook my head, pulling at the zipper. "It's fine. I'll do it over the weekend."
He chuckled, a low, easy sound that echoed slightly off the metal. "You should get yourself a wife, pretty boy. Makes life easier. More bearable."
I scoffed under my breath. "I don't even have enough to buy myself new clothes, Marco. What woman would accept someone like me?"
He laughed again, softer this time. "Not all of them are after money, you know."
I peeled off the shirt, the fabric stiff with sweat, and tossed it into my bag. The air felt cooler against my skin. "You don't get it," I said quietly. "It's not that I have little and I'm afraid it won't suffice. I have nothing, Marco. Nothing to my name."
He didn't answer right away. He just scratched his beard, eyes narrowing slightly—not with pity, but thought. "You should use those tricks of yours for something useful. You've got a phone, right? Film yourself, post it online."
I reached for my hoodie, the familiar feel of the fabric grounding me as I pulled it over my head. "What's the point?" I said. "No one cares about that stuff anymore. Everyone's seen it before. A lot of people can do what I do."
Marco grinned, shaking his head. "Nah. The other day at the pub, there was this guy doing card tricks on stage. Thought he was hot shit. I sat close—close enough to see every move he made. Could tell what was coming before he even did it. But you…" He paused, pointing at me. "With you, I can't see anything. Nothing. No matter how much I watch. That's real talent, pretty boy."
I zipped my hoodie, tying the strings tight, and slipped into my shorts. Marco meant well, but conversations like these had no end. He'd talk and talk, and I'd run out of words long before he ran out of air.
"I'll think about it," I said finally.
He smiled, satisfied, as if he'd just handed me the secret to life. "That's all I'm saying. You think about it. You're wasting something good otherwise."
I slung my bag over my shoulder and nodded, the motion slow, habitual. The light buzzed again above us, and for a moment, the air seemed still between one breath and the next.
Outside, the sun had started its descent, spreading that heavy amber haze across the city. I walked out into it, the air thick and alive with the end of day—the faint roar of traffic, the distant call of vendors closing shop, the city's pulse softening toward evening.
Marco's words lingered behind me, half-forgotten but still faintly echoing. You're wasting something good.
Maybe he was right. Maybe not.
I lit a cigarette and kept walking, the smoke curling around me in slow, ghostly shapes. It didn't matter where the road led tonight—just that it kept going.
The street was quiet, washed in that bruised-blue light that came after sunset, when everything felt half-asleep. I had just finished my cigarette, flicking what was left of it to the curb, when a figure jumped into my path.
I jerked back, a curse slipping out before I could stop it. "What the hell are you ever going to get from doing this every time, Eddie?"
He grinned, the kind of grin that made you think he lived off the trouble it caused. "For my own entertainment," he said simply, as if that explained everything.
Eddie looked like he'd stepped out of a bad dream and decided to make it look good. His hair hung around his face in dark, uneven strands that brushed against his jawline, still damp from either sweat or rain—I couldn't tell which. He had that lean, wiry build that came from too many restless nights and too little food, his skin catching the dim light like smoke. A cigarette burned lazily between his lips, its ember glowing faintly in the wind. He wore a dark jacket, collar up, the fabric worn at the seams, and beneath it, a simple black shirt with a pendant resting at the base of his throat—a small, circular charm that gleamed whenever he turned his head. There were piercings in his ear, bits of silver that winked when he moved, and a small glint at his lower lip where the cigarette sat. His eyes were half-lidded, sharp, always scanning, always amused.
I sighed and started walking again. "I'm tired as fuck, Eddie. I want to go to bed."
He fell into step beside me, easy, quick, talking before I could tell him to leave me alone. "You call that metal stick a bed?"
"That's what they call it at the shelter," I said. "And I'm too broke to call it anything else."
Eddie laughed—a soft, broken laugh that somehow carried warmth. He always moved like he had electricity under his skin, jumpy, restless, like words couldn't stay inside him long enough to finish forming before the next thought shoved them out. He'd start one sentence and switch to another halfway through, juggling ideas like coins, never dropping a single one.
"Do you have a nice mattress I can borrow?" I asked, mostly to shut him up.
He blew out a stream of smoke and smirked. "You could, but it'd probably get stolen the second you turn around."
"That's comforting," I muttered.
"That's Ebonreach," he replied.
We walked side by side down the cracked pavement. The lamplight buzzed above, casting long, thin shadows that stretched and broke with every passing car. Eddie hummed something under his breath, some tune I couldn't place, his cigarette trailing a faint curl of smoke between us.
For all his noise, there was something about him that filled the silence in ways the city never could. He was unpredictable, exhausting, and yet—there was something almost magnetic about it. Like the chaos in him was the only thing that made sense against the stillness in me.
He nudged my arm lightly. "So, pretty boy magician, what's the trick tonight?"
I gave him a side glance. "Getting home without hearing your voice again."
He laughed, full and bright, the sound bouncing down the empty street. "Ah, impossible. Should've saved your magic for that."
"Guess I wasted it on making idiots disappear," I said, and for once, he didn't fire back.
We kept walking, the night swallowing the rest of our words.
Eddie kicked a pebble down the road, hands in his jacket pockets, that grin still playing on his lips. The city lights caught in the curls of his hair, turning the dark strands copper at the edges. He turned to me suddenly, the cigarette now dangling between his fingers.
"Wanna add another piercing?" he said, eyes glinting. "Helix? Lip? Your call. My treat."
The offer pulled a grin out of me before I could think. "Fuck yeah."
He laughed, triumphant, as if he'd known the answer all along. Then he threw an arm around my shoulder, pulling me closer until I could smell the smoke clinging to his jacket and the faint trace of metal from his jewelry. His hand came up to ruffle my hair roughly, strands falling into my eyes.
"I knew you'd say yes to that," he said, voice rich with amusement.
I brushed my hair back, still grinning. "You make it sound like I ever say no to you."
"That's because you don't," he shot back easily. "You pretend to, but you never mean it."
We turned onto a narrower street. Neon light spilled over cracked pavement, pink and green reflections broken by puddles that hadn't dried since morning. A few shops still buzzed faintly, their windows fogged from the heat inside. The smell of fried food mixed with rain and cigarette ash.
Eddie flicked the butt of his cigarette into the gutter and stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. He talked fast, the way he always did, words tumbling over each other without care. "I know a guy down near the station. Works cheap. Probably drunk, but his hands are steady when he's not shaking."
"Comforting," I said.
"You'll survive. You always do." He shot me a look, half teasing, half something I couldn't name. "Besides, a little new metal suits you. You've got that face for it—dangerous, pretty, like you're about to ruin someone's life on purpose."
"Coming from the guy who looks like trouble turned human," I said.
He laughed again, the sound bouncing off the empty shopfronts. "Exactly. You see the vision."
We walked deeper into the city, our reflections gliding beside us in the darkened glass. Eddie's voice filled the space between the traffic and my thoughts, his energy wrapping around me like static. I could already picture the flash of the needle, the sting against skin, the sound of him laughing in the background.
Something about it felt alive. Not the kind of alive you chase—just the kind that catches you off guard and reminds you that you haven't disappeared yet.