The street was freezing. The snow fell so hard it felt violent. The ground was a battlefield where tired people and stray dogs fought to survive. To most people, this is a gross place they never want to see.
People look at us with hate or pity. They act like it is our fault we are poor. But is it?
I think I see the Grim Reaper coming. I want to ask him: Is it my fault I am dying on this street? Is it my fault I was born this way? I forgot—you don't speak, do you?
If only someone had helped. If only someone cared. People say we should "enjoy life," but look at me. Even the Reaper looks at me with pity. Tell me one thing... do they have food in hell?
The Grim Reaper looked down at the twenty-year-old boy. His body was covered in bruises as he lay on the frozen ground, clutching a piece of bread like it was a treasure worth more than his own life. The boy, with his long dark hair, stared up at me. His eyes told me everything I needed to know. The scars on his face, the tattered clothes, and theblood seeping from his hands spoke of a lifetime of pain.
With the last of his strength, the boy spoke. "Hey, Mister Reaper... can you please give this bread to my little brother? He hasn't eaten for a week."
He crawled toward me, and every inch looked like a fresh descent into hell. His fingers clawed at the snow just to move forward. Finally, he lifted his hand, offering the bread as if it were his only possession. "Mister Reaper, please... give this to my brother. Tell him I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It's all my fault."
He whispered his final words to a brother who wasn't there: "Be strong, Michael. You want to be a singer, right? Don't stop. Keep going. I'll be there, I promise."
As he held out that tiny, molded piece of bread, I stood frozen. I couldn't speak. I couldn't move. Then, a single tear rolled down my porcelain skull. Even I, the "cold-blooded" Reaper, can cry. And just like that, the boy died, still offering the bread he had traded his life for.
I didn't take the bread. I simply stared at him as his body grew cold. Even the snow seemed to fall silently, out of respect for the boy.
I stood up and gripped the paper I held—the paper where his name was written. But for a soul as pure as his, the paper itself denied his name, the ink fading away.
"Remember this, boy," I whispered. "When you find the light you were looking for, you can ask Him for anything you want."
Just as the snow falls and eventually vanishes, the beggar's life faded away, waiting for a distant summer to finally melt the lingering cold.