The kick came without warning.
Pain exploded through his ribs as his body slammed against the damp stone wall of the alley. The air left his lungs in a broken gasp, his vision blurring for a moment.
Laughter followed.
Loud. Careless.
"Oi, rat. Still alive?"
He didn't answer.
He never did.
A hand grabbed his torn shirt, pulling him up just enough for another punch to land. His head snapped to the side, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth.
"Pathetic."
Another shove—and he hit the ground.
Dust rose around him.
Footsteps faded.
Silence returned.
For a few seconds… he didn't move.
Then slowly, painfully, he pushed himself up.
Not to fight.
Not to chase.
But simply to stand.
Because if he stayed down…
he might not get up again.
The alley stretched ahead, narrow and suffocating.
He walked.
One step at a time.
Each movement sent dull pain through his body, but his face didn't change. His eyes remained quiet… distant… as if none of it mattered anymore.
Then—
A sound.
Soft.
Light.
Out of place.
Laughter.
His steps slowed.
His gaze shifted slightly toward the end of the alley.
There, where the street opened into a brighter road, stood a woman and a child.
The boy clung to her sleeve, eyes shining with excitement.
"Mom… please, just one! I want that one!"
He pointed eagerly at a nearby stall where skewers sizzled over open flame, their scent drifting faintly into the alley.
The woman sighed, but a small smile tugged at her lips.
"Alright… just one."
The child's face lit up.
A smile.
Wide.
Carefree.
Alive.
…
He stopped.
Just for a moment.
His gaze rested on them.
Not longing.
Not envy.
Just… stillness.
As if he were watching something far away.
Something that didn't belong to him.
The boy laughed as he took the skewer, holding it like treasure.
Warm.
Simple.
Happy.
…
A few seconds passed.
Then—
He looked away.
His head lowered.
Those quiet, empty eyes returned to the ground.
And he walked.
Past the light.
Back into the narrow alley.
As if that moment had never existed.
The village thinned as he moved farther away.
Voices faded.
Houses became fewer.
The ground turned uneven beneath his feet.
This was the edge.
Where people stopped caring.
Where things were left behind.
His steps slowed as a small, crooked structure came into view.
His home.
If it could be called that.
It stood alone, barely holding itself together.
The walls were made of uneven wooden planks, some cracked, some missing. Time had eaten away at it piece by piece.
The roof wasn't a roof.
Broken tin sheets were laid across the top, held down by stones and scraps of wood. In places, old cloth and patched animal hide were stuffed into gaps, barely blocking the sky.
When it rained, water came through.
When the wind blew, it rattled like it would fall apart.
It wasn't built to last.
It just… hadn't collapsed yet.
Just like him.
He stood there for a second.
Then stepped forward.
The door creaked as he pushed it open.
Inside—
There was almost nothing.
A small, cold space.
Empty.
In one corner stood a bed.
A rough wooden frame, uneven, slightly tilted.
A thin, worn cloth lay on top of it, long stripped of any comfort.
A pillow rested at the edge.
Flattened.
Rugged.
Barely a pillow at all.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
The light dimmed.
Silence filled the room.
The bed creaked as he let himself fall onto it.
Pain spread through his body, sharp and immediate—but he didn't react.
Didn't move.
Didn't make a sound.
He lay there, staring upward.
Slowly… his eyes closed.
Just for a moment.
…
Then they opened again.
His gaze shifted.
Toward the corner of the room.
It was there.
As always.
A small wooden carving.
Rough.
Worn.
The shape of a woman sitting quietly.
There was no face.
No eyes.
No features.
Time—or perhaps the lack of skill—had left it blank.
And yet—
It felt… gentle.
Beautiful.
His mother.
Or what remained of her.
He didn't remember her face.
Not her eyes.
Not her smile.
Nothing clear.
Only fragments.
A voice.
Soft.
Warm.
A melody that lingered somewhere deep within him.
Lullabies.
He couldn't remember the words.
Only the feeling.
Something quiet.
Something safe.
…
He looked at it for a few seconds.
Silent.
Still.
Then slowly—
His gaze drifted away.
Back to the empty ceiling.
As if even that small warmth…
was not something he could keep.
Outside, the wind picked up.
The loose tin on the roof rattled softly.
A faint, hollow sound echoed through the hut.
But inside—
There was only silence.
And a boy
no one saw.
.....
He stood there, staring at the body.
Silent.
Still.
…
Then—
A flicker.
A memory.
The inn was louder than usual that day.
Voices overlapped, mugs clashed, and the smell of cooked food filled the air. People laughed more, spoke louder—like the whole place had forgotten its usual weight.
New Year.
He moved quietly between the tables, collecting empty plates, wiping surfaces, doing what he always did.
Unnoticed.
"Hey."
He paused.
Turned slightly.
The inn owner stood near the counter, watching him.
Unlike the others in the village, the man's gaze didn't carry disdain.
"Come here."
He walked over.
The man reached into his pocket and held out a few coins.
More than usual.
"…Take it."
The boy looked at them.
Then at him.
"Ten bronze," the man said. "Extra."
A small pause.
"For today."
The boy didn't move immediately.
"I didn't do anything extra," he said quietly.
The owner let out a short breath.
"It's New Year," he replied. "Just… keep it."
Silence lingered between them.
"…Buy something for yourself."
The boy didn't like that.
Didn't like the tone.
Didn't like what it meant.
But he didn't refuse.
Not this time.
His fingers closed around the coins.
"…Thank you."
Later—
The streets were crowded.
More people than usual.
More noise.
More light.
He walked through them, careful, as always.
Five bronze coins a day.
That was enough to survive.
Barely.
But today…
Ten more.
His hand rested lightly against his pocket, feeling their presence.
Real.
For once, he wasn't thinking about tomorrow.
Just… now.
His eyes moved from stall to stall.
Searching.
And then—
He saw it.
A small skewer stall.
Smoke rising.
Meat sizzling over flame.
The smell reached him.
Warm.
Rich.
For a brief moment—
Something changed.
His steps slowed.
And just slightly…
A faint smile appeared on his face.
Small.
Barely there.
But real.
He walked toward it.
One step.
Then—
A hand grabbed him.
Rough.
Sudden.
Before he could react—
Darkness.
The alley.
Cold.
Empty.
The smell of rot.
He was thrown to the ground.
Pain shot through his body as he hit the stone.
Laughter followed.
Low.
Mocking.
"Well, well…"
"Where's the little rat going with money, huh?"
He looked up.
Three of them.
Bigger.
Older.
The same ones.
They always targeted the weak.
And he was one of them.
"It's New Year," one of them said with a crooked smile. "We're being nice today."
"Hand it over… and we won't beat you."
Silence.
The boy stared at them.
Then—
"…No."
A single word.
Flat.
Unshaken.
For a moment—
They blinked.
Then laughed.
"Did you hear that?"
"He said no."
The first blow came fast.
His body jerked as the punch landed.
Then another.
And another.
Pain spread, sharp and unforgiving.
But he didn't scream.
Didn't beg.
Didn't cry.
His hands clenched.
His teeth gritted.
And then—
He moved.
A punch.
Thrown with everything he had.
It didn't matter.
One of them caught his fist mid-air.
Easily.
"…Pathetic."
They laughed.
And the beating got worse.
Back in the hut—
He lay on the bed.
Still.
Silent.
…
Slowly—
His right hand lifted.
Rested over his eyes.
His fingers tightened.
His teeth clenched.
"…Pathetic…"
The word slipped out quietly.
Not in anger.
Not in sadness.
Just… truth.
The memory faded.
The present returned.
The cold night.
The smell of blood.
The body in front of him.
And the boy…
standing there.
Silent.