"DING DONG"
The church bell rang out, its heavy iron sound marking the start of another morning.
A flock of birds took flight at the sound, filling the sky.
The boy woke with a start in the alley. His back ached from the cold stone; every joint was stiff. Nothing had changed. A lullaby drifted through his mind, with a faint memory of soap and a soft tune, but the memory dissolved the moment he tried to grasp it.
He looked up as sunlight streamed into the alley and lit the dust that tricked his eyes before fading while the grime clung to everything.
His stomach cramped. He patted his stomach, then fished around for change. None. He had slept here again, and the city was already moving on without him.
The foul smell of decaying bread, urine, and old blood reached his nostrils; he held his breath, though the occasional bakery scent only made him more dizzy—he felt like vomiting but forced himself to stay upright.
He stood up, his muscles sore. The sweat‑soaked shirt had fused to his ribs after weeks in the city's filth; every attempt to peel it off stung like thousands of pinpricks, and it would not budge.
He stayed at the entrance of the alley. People's hats bounced; their jackets fluttered in the wind; their boots splashed water from the puddles on the street. A carriage passed, its horses whinnying.
A man in velvet tossed a copper coin into a beggar's tin; the clink echoed. A woman hurried past with her parasol, wrinkling her nose at the gutter. The world moved on. He stayed, feeling useless and invisible.
A man in a black cloak passed and moved his fingers; sparks twisted and vanished. The man's hands shook and sweat beaded his brow as a crowd gathered and whispered, though no one noticed the man in the alley..
A boy, no older than seven, snapped his fingers; a spark jumped. He grinned. The crowd ignored him.
Magic was everywhere. For others, it was normal. For him, impossible.
Everyone.
Except for him.
He moved past, empty and silent. People's eyes slid over him. Their faces were sometimes uneasy. He needed something—a name, something to hold. Even if he remembered it.
They didn't know his name.
Neither did he.
He tried to remember—a face, a voice, anything from before.
But there was nothing.
Only fog remained in his mind.
~
He roamed around. Sunlight pierced through the clouds, forming shadows on stones. The windows displayed baked goods behind glass panes, silver jewelry in dark velvet. He passed by unnoticed, invisible to others.
In front of him, there was a woman clad in white and gold, walking amid the crowd. With brown eyes, she wore expensive clothing. There was someone tailing her closely.
A hand stretched out. The bag vanished.
The burglar fled.
"…MOVE!"
Noticing that the lady was terrified, he jumped forward and tackled the burglar's legs. They fell hard on the cobblestones. The robber screamed, kicked his legs, and revealed a dirty knife.
The boy twisted, but too slowly. The blade cut deep into his arm. Pain burned as his sleeve grew wet and heavy.
Boots hit stone as city guards rushed in. The thief saw their uniforms, kicked the boy aside, dropped the purse, and fled into an alley.
On his knees, breathing hard, the boy picked up the velvet purse—his blood staining it—and held it out to the girl.
"Yours," he rasped.
She stared, pale-faced. Her hands trembled as she reached for the purse, eyes flicking from his bloody sleeve to his dirty face.
"Thank you," she whispered, out of breath. "I don't have coins to give you, but..."
She reached out to help him up, her fingers stopping near his bloody arm.
"It's fine," the boy said, voice rough. He tried to stand, arms heavy. "You don't have to..."
His words stuck. The street spun. Everything faded to gray, then darkness.
The last thing he felt was the bite of the cold cobblestone against his forehead.