The afternoon sun, weak and hazy, hung low over the quiet suburban street. Two years had passed since Nathaniel walked out of the foster home, leaving Lili's pale, trusting face and the stagnant air of institutional sorrow behind him. Two years spent trading the confines of a broken system for the vast, unforgiving emptiness of the open road, until he settled here.
He was currently submerged in the drudgery of seasonal labor, his existence anchored to the kindness and quiet severity of an old man named Samuel. The house that commanded Nathaniel's attention was a solid, uncompromising structure of the early twentieth century, a two-story, grey stone foundation topped with clapboard siding that was desperate for a fresh coat of paint. It wasn't the manicured palace of the truly wealthy, nor the crumbling ruin of the poor. It was the home of a man who had lived a careful life: Samuel's house was one of those comfortable, slightly fussy residences where every shingle was intact, and every window was clean, yet the paint on the porch rails was undeniably peeling. It possessed the scent of old cedar, a faint mustiness, and the unwavering conviction of permanence.
Nathaniel was in the yard, engaged in the weary, endless chore of autumn cleanup. He stood in the deepening drifts of fallen leaves, wielding a heavy-tined rake, his movements stiff and practiced. The repetitive scrape of metal against soil, the low rustle of dry oak leaves being dragged into enormous, sad piles, was the soundtrack to his life now. It was monotonous, demanding, and mercifully simple. The simplicity was the only thing that kept the noise in his head from escalating into a scream.
He was twenty now, but he felt older, hollowed out by the sheer lack of future he could grasp. The two years away had chiseled the softness from his features, replacing it with a perpetual, defensive hardness. He was thin, carrying the lean, wiry strength born of necessity and poor diet. The most telling change was in his eyes: they were perpetually tired, their dark brown depth clouded by a film of weariness and self-loathing. Even in the crisp autumn air, the faint, stale scent of nicotine clung to the fabric of his worn denim jacket, a constant reminder of the internal negotiations he lost every thirty minutes.
His emotional landscape was one of profound, crushing depression. It was a geological feature of his soul, not a passing mood. It was born from the trauma of the foster system, the guilt of leaving Lili, and the absolute certainty that he was inherently destined for failure.
Why rake the leaves? He thought, his shoulders aching as he dragged another mound toward the tarp. They'll fall again next year. Everything is temporary except the dust and the decay.
This fatalism was his shield. He hated his life with a dull, persistent resentment. He hated the routine, the lack of real purpose, and most profoundly, he hated that Lili didn't follow him.
That was the true, festering wound. When he left, he had expected her to be right there, her small hand reaching for his, ready to step off the cliff with him. She was supposed to be the reason for the struggle, the light at the end of the impossible tunnel. But she stayed. She chose the known horror of the system over the terrifying uncertainty of the outside world, and in that choice, Nathaniel felt utterly, completely abandoned. Her refusal to follow was proof, to his broken teenage logic, that he was worth nothing, not even a risk.
This despair fueled his destructive cycle. He didn't seek pleasure in smoking or drinking; he sought annihilation. The cigarette was a short, sharp anesthetic. The burn in his lungs was a physical, tangible distraction from the endless, invisible ache in his mind. The smoke he exhaled was a desperate attempt to create a temporary, grey fog between his consciousness and the brutal reality of his existence.
He had developed bad traits, not vicious ones, but slow, self-eroding habits. He drank cheap beer on Saturday nights until the world spun and his thoughts were too slurred to hurt him. He smoked cannabis, hidden in tightly rolled joints, because the haze turned the sharp edges of his memories, the look on Lili's face, the coldness of the social worker's smile, into soft, manageable curves.
Escape. That was the central need, the desperate, throbbing requirement of his spirit. He wasn't running to a better life; he was running from his own mind.
He leaned the rake against the old stone fence and pulled a crumpled cigarette from his breast pocket, lighting it with a cheap plastic lighter. The first drag, deep and acrid, sent a familiar, satisfying wave of dizziness over him. For five seconds, the world was manageable. For five seconds, the hollow echo was filled with smoke.
The exterior of Samuel's house was not easy to work on. The old man, though kind, demanded meticulous attention to detail.
Nathaniel's chores included everything from basic yard maintenance to minor repairs. Today, in addition to the leaves, he was supposed to be pruning the heavy, ancient rose bushes that bordered the long, winding walkway up to the porch. He hated the roses. Their thorns were vicious, and the sheer density of the two-year-old wood was exhausting to cut through. He wore thick leather gloves, but the thorns always found a way, leaving angry red scratches on his forearms, marks that felt appropriate for the work he was doing, taming something beautiful and dangerous.
The leaves were the heaviest task. He had already raked the entire front yard, a sweeping semi-circle of lawn, into four immense, bulging tarps. Now he was tackling the back, a shadier area where moss grew on the stone path and the old, forgotten scent of decaying apples lingered beneath the oak canopy.
He worked mechanically, his body performing the tasks his mind refused to acknowledge. He cleared the gutters, a difficult, dizzying ascent up a shaky aluminum ladder, scooping out years of packed sludge, decomposed leaves, and the occasional startled beetle. He scrubbed the grime from the white porch columns, using a stiff-bristled brush and a bucket of soapy water. The physical exertion was his salvation. It left him too physically spent to entertain his deeper suicidal thoughts. The burn in his muscles felt honest, unlike the fabricated reality of the world he was trying to forget.
The house reflected Samuel's character: disciplined but not extravagant. The stone foundation was clean, the slate roof expertly maintained. But the exterior paint on the clapboard was chipped and thin, hinting at a necessary frugality. The gardens were dense, heavy with established plantings, rhododendrons, massive azaleas, and the thorny, wild roses, clearly the work of decades, not a quick landscaping job. The gutters were cast iron, painted black, and required constant, arduous cleaning. It was a house that demanded respect and effort, and Nathaniel gave it that, if nothing else. He respected the house's stubborn persistence.
At four o'clock, a sharp, metallic sound, the old dinner bell Samuel insisted on using, rang from the back porch. Time to move indoors.
The interior of Samuel's home was a labyrinth of shadows and history. It was meticulously tidy, but nothing was new. The furniture was heavy, dark mahogany, softened by age and layers of polishing wax. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of dust, old books, and Samuel's faint, antiseptic aftershave. Every room felt like a library, silent and judgment-filled.
Nathaniel's inside chores were less physically taxing but more intrusive. He was the one who brought the outside in, traversing the delicate, antique Persian rugs with his heavy, muddy boots (removed at the porch, but the residue clung to his socks).
His main task was taking out the trash. Samuel was fiercely private, and this task required Nathaniel to enter the small, cramped kitchen and the equally small office. He collected the overflowing wastebaskets, not just scraps, but the detritus of an old man's life: empty tea bags, neatly folded news clippings, the wrappers from his specific brand of hard candy.
He also helped the old man with his chores. Samuel suffered from arthritis, so Nathaniel would handle things that required dexterity or strength:
Dusting the high shelves, the living room ceiling was tall, lined with bookshelves that reached the plaster. Nathaniel would use a long, feather duster, carefully navigating the spines of ancient, brittle books, ensuring the dust didn't settle on the heavy mahogany mantlepiece, which was crowded with photographs of Samuel's departed wife.
Changing lightbulbs, the old brass light fixtures used a specific, hard-to-find bulb. Nathaniel, steady on a small stepladder, would replace the burned-out ones, his hands surprisingly deft and careful.
Washing the dishcloths, Samuel used thick, linen dishcloths that required boiling. Nathaniel would handle the stove, carefully stirring the steaming pot of water and detergent until the cloths were bleached and purified.
As he emptied the trash from Samuel's office, he noticed the latest pile of discarded items: a crumpled tobacco pouch and a half-full bottle of low-grade brandy that Samuel had apparently decided to forgo. The old man was trying. He was always trying to be better, a concept Nathaniel found alien.
Nathaniel finished his indoor tasks and moved to the sitting room. Samuel was in his favorite armchair, a worn, high-backed velvet piece, reading a massive, leather-bound volume. Samuel was a tall, bony man, his face a web of fine, deep wrinkles, but his eyes were sharp and clear, reflecting a relentless, unforgiving intelligence.
Nathaniel approached to confirm his departure. "I'm done for today, Samuel. The gutters are clear, and I finished the high dusting. I'll bag the rose clippings tomorrow."
Samuel slowly lowered the book, marking his place with a thin strip of leather. His gaze settled on Nathaniel, gentle but unwavering.
"Thank you, Nathaniel. The rosebushes will appreciate the delay. I'm quite certain they bear a grudge against the pruning shears." He paused, his expression shifting. "Sit down, my boy. We need to speak. It's about the smell."
Nathaniel felt his stomach clench. He knew what was coming. He tried to project indifference, leaning against the doorframe rather than accepting the chair.
"The smell of the cedar and the dust is fighting a losing battle against the smoke, Nathaniel. I told you two months ago, when I hired you. I will pay you fair wages for honest work. But this house will not tolerate self-destruction."
"I do the work," Nathaniel retorted, his voice flat, defensive. "I'm here every day, on time. I'm honest. What I do on my time, outside of these hours, isn't your business, Samuel."
"Ah, but it is, my boy," Samuel sighed, his voice surprisingly soft. "Because your time always walks back through my front door. You carry it with you. That thin, acidic smell of stale smoke. I can see the nicotine staining your fingers. I know you hide the tobacco pouch in the hollow of the old oak in the back yard, thinking I don't notice. And the dizzy spells you have when you bend too fast? That's not just fatigue from raking, is it?"
Nathaniel refused to meet his eyes, instead focusing on the meticulous carving of a wooden footstool nearby. "I need something to take the edge off. It's just cigarettes. It's better than getting into real trouble."
"Cigarettes are trouble, Nathaniel. They are a promise of a shortened life and a weakened will. And the other thing, the weed, don't think I don't know when you've been using it. You get that distant look, that quiet, vacant look, as you've temporarily vacated your own body. You disappear, Nathaniel. And I hired you to be here, not to be a ghost haunting my yard."
Samuel leaned forward, his clear eyes pinning the younger man. "I care about you, boy. You've got a good mind, and you work like a draft horse. But you are actively choosing the slowest, quietest form of suicide. You use these habits, the smoking, the occasional drinking, the usage of weed, as a spiritual anesthetic. You are killing the part of you that has to face the pain."
Nathaniel felt a surge of cold fury, the kind that always masked profound pain. "What pain, Samuel? The pain of being abandoned? The pain of having nothing to go back to? The pain of knowing the only person I ever cared about chose a cage over me? That pain? You think I can just wish that away, like raking leaves?"
"You can choose not to numb it away," Samuel countered immediately, his tone sharp. "Numbing is not healing. It's deferring the rent. And the debt always comes due. You hate your life, Nathaniel, because you are actively choosing to stay outside of it. You're waiting for an escape button. I am telling you, your escape button is right here. It's in the hard work, it's in the clean lungs, it's in the sober moment where you choose to think about tomorrow, instead of trying to forget yesterday."
Nathaniel laughed, a harsh, humorless sound that scraped in his throat. "Tomorrow is just the same as today, Samuel. The same scraping, the same cold. The only thing that changes is the weight of the memories. And the memories get heavier every time I remember that she wasn't there. She didn't follow me. She's probably rotting away somewhere, and I couldn't save her because I was too busy saving myself. What kind of man does that make me?"
"It makes you a man who survived," Samuel stated firmly. "And a man who is now wasting his survival. That girl, Lili, the one you speak of, she didn't follow you for her own reasons. You carry her choice like a burden, boy. You use her decision as an excuse to destroy yourself. You are telling yourself, 'Since Lili abandoned me, I must be worthless, so why bother?'"
"Because it's true!" Nathaniel shouted, pushing off the doorframe, his composure finally snapping. "I am worthless! I have no family, no education beyond the few years the system allowed me, and no prospects but cheap labor. I smoke because the minute I stop, I remember every single detail, every touch, every promise I made to her that I couldn't keep. The smoke is the only thing that creates distance. It tries to escape this world for a blessed hour."
Samuel watched him, his gaze compassionate but unyielding. "The world you escape into is worse, Nathaniel. It's a hazy, short-sighted prison built by nicotine and self-pity. Listen to me. I see the intelligence in your work. I see the care you take with my wife's photographs on the mantle. You have the discipline to be better. But you are constantly sabotaging your own clarity. This house is my sanctuary. I cannot continue to employ you if you insist on dragging the shadows of the street, the smoke, and the stupor into my life. I'm not rich, Nathaniel, but I'm not poor either. I can afford to pay you a decent wage, but I cannot afford to harbor your self-destruction."
He paused, letting the weight of the ultimatum settle. "I'm not kicking you out today, but I am giving you a week. A clean week. No tobacco, no cannabis, no excessive drinking. Show me that you want the future, not oblivion. It's the only way, Nathaniel. You can't start building a life for yourself if your main goal is to be invisible. You have to be seen, you have to be present, and you have to be clear. If you want to honor the girl who stayed behind, don't destroy the boy she trusted. Build the man she hoped you would become."
Nathaniel stood there, deflated, the fury draining out, replaced by a cold, familiar shame. Samuel was right. Every word was true. He was hiding, using smoke as a veil and his past as an excuse. The simple, clean truth of Samuel's house was demanding a clean truth from him, and he didn't know if he was capable of delivering it. The yearning for the sweet, dissociative haze of a cigarette was already a physical ache in his jaw.
"I hear you, Samuel," Nathaniel finally managed, his voice now a defeated whisper. "I hear you."
He walked toward the door, his steps heavy on the ancient, quiet floorboards. He was leaving the warmth and the relentless light of accountability, heading back out into the cold, where he knew the first thing he would do, the minute he was beyond Samuel's property line, was reach into the hollow of the old oak and find his comforting, destructive escape. His choice was already made, and the knowledge of his failure was a fresh, internal bruise. The hollow echo had returned, louder than before.
He closed the heavy front door behind him, the latch clicking shut, sealing the quiet, clean world of Samuel inside, and leaving Nathaniel alone in the cold twilight, trapped once more in his own relentless need for oblivion.
The three days that followed the ultimatum were a tightrope walk of deceit for Nathaniel. He adopted a manic level of efficiency in Samuel's yard, attempting to camouflage the slow collapse of his resolve with frantic labor. He pruned the vicious rose bushes with a furious, almost violent energy, and raked the never-ending stream of oak leaves until his back screamed. He made sure he was a portrait of diligent sobriety under Samuel's quiet, observant gaze.
But the moment he clocked out, the exact second he stepped off the stone path and onto the anonymity of the public sidewalk, he became a man racing toward his own destruction. He would race to the hollow of the old oak, retrieve his supplies, and chain-smoke until his hands stopped shaking.
His evenings were spent in a place that required no such deception: the Keg & Coin, a bar tucked away behind a strip mall, a place Samuel would never, under normal circumstances, darken with his shadow.
The Keg & Coin was less a place of pleasure and more a dimly lit, sticky purgatory. It was housed in a low-slung cinder block building, deliberately anonymous. The exterior, painted a peeling, indeterminate shade of brown, looked like it had been absorbing the street's sorrows for fifty years.
The minute Nathaniel pushed through the heavy, warped wooden door, the bar's atmosphere washed over him, familiar and corrosive. The air inside was dense, a suffocating blanket woven from stale beer, rancid fryer grease, and the heavy, continuous cloud of cigarette smoke that hung perpetually six feet off the floor, illuminated by the dusty beams slicing from the emergency exit signs.
The sounds were a low, grinding cacophony: a jukebox playing country music from two decades prior, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of a solitary pool game in the back corner, and the slurred, cyclical mutterings of the half-dozen regulars scattered along the cracked vinyl barstools. The ice machine groaned periodically, a sound like a distant, dying beast.
The visual details were harsh and tired. The floor was dark, checkered linoleum, sticky underfoot with layers of spilled liquor. The bar itself, scored and scarred by thousands of forgotten toasts. Neon beer signs, some flickering, some dark, provided the only real light, bathing the room in sickly greens, blues, and reds that made everyone look like a character in a cheap horror film.
Nathaniel took his usual stool near the end of the bar, far from the central cluster of regulars but close enough to the exhausted bartender. He ordered the cheapest thing available: cheap booze, usually a well whiskey and a beer chaser, a combination designed to numb the nerves quickly and efficiently.
On this, the fourth day, the veneer of sobriety he'd maintained for Samuel crumbled entirely. He was already two whiskeys deep, the alcohol warm and aggressive in his empty stomach, when he fished a crumpled cigarette from his pack, placed it between his lips, and lit it with a satisfied, defiant flick of the lighter. He watched the smoke curl toward the ceiling, a visible, tangible symbol of his broken promise.
He was staring into the amber liquid of his whiskey, lost in the self-pitying fog of his decision, when a presence settled heavily on the stool next to him. It wasn't one of the regulars; they were too far gone to manage such a deliberate movement.
Nathaniel glanced up, his vision slightly slow to focus. His heart plummeted.
Samuel.
The old man looked impossibly out of place. He was wearing the same tweed jacket he wore around the house, his polished leather shoes incongruous against the dirty floor. He looked like an Anglican priest who had accidentally wandered into a biker rally. He carried the clean scent of cedar and old books into the foul air of the bar, an instant, jarring contrast.
Samuel didn't look angry; he looked disappointed, a look that cut far deeper than any rage.
He caught the eye of the bored bartender. "Two single malts, please. Good ones. None of this gutter fuel." He then turned to Nathaniel. "I decided to pay you an extra hour, Nathaniel. For surveillance. I wanted to see where my investment was going. It appears it's being poured into the local economy's least reputable establishment."
He accepted his glass of superior whiskey, pushing the other toward Nathaniel. "What's the plan for the future, Nathaniel? Not the next cigarette, not the next whiskey. The actual plan. The one you use to pull yourself out of this life."
Nathaniel took a long, defensive drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke toward Samuel's pristine tweed. He didn't bother to hide the resentment. The booze had given him courage, or rather, it had silenced the rational voice of fear.
"My plan is simple," Nathaniel slurred, picking up the better whiskey. The quality burned differently, but the effect was the same. "I finish your stupid yard, I get paid, and I keep saving until I can travel. I want to find Lili. That's the only plan that matters. I want to look her in the eye and make sure she's alive, and then I want to get on my feet so I can give her a life that's better than the one I ran from."
He slammed his glass back on the bar. "And until then, I get by. This," he gestured vaguely at the chaos around them, "this is how I get by. It's temporary. It's a buffer."
"A buffer that will kill you before you find her," Samuel said calmly, taking a slow sip of his drink. "You think you can build a life for Lili while you are actively destroying the foundations of your own health? You want to find her, you want to 'get on your feet,' but you are chaining yourself to the floor of this bar. The girl you love deserves a man with clear eyes and clean lungs, not a boy pickled in cheap gin and self-pity."
Samuel pushed his glass aside, his voice dropping to a serious, low tone that commanded attention despite the surrounding noise.
"I'm not here to judge your pain, Nathaniel. I know your life has been hard, and the guilt you carry is heavy. That's why I'm here. I see something in you, Nathaniel, a quiet decency that your habits are suffocating. I am offering you an escape that is real, not temporary."
He leaned in, his clean, elderly scent contrasting sharply with the smoke and stale alcohol surrounding them.
"Here is the deal. The ultimatum. You can come off the street. You can move into the spare room in my house, it's small, but it's clean, and it has a lock on the door. You'll have a roof, a hot meal, and a steady income. But this is not an extension of my charity. This is an investment in your future. You have to give up these traits, the smoke, the drink, the weed, cold turkey, this moment. You walk out of here clean, and you never look back. Or, you keep drinking that poison, and you never show up again at my house. That's the line. I care about you, boy, but I will not pay for your self-destruction."
The offer hung in the air, immense and impossible. It was everything Nathaniel needed: safety, stability, a genuine chance. But the alcohol and the nicotine had fortified his walls of denial and defiance. He didn't hear the compassion; he only heard the demand, the control, the familiar, suffocating judgment of an authority figure.
Nathaniel laughed again, a nasty, brittle sound. He met Samuel's eyes, his own glazed over and filled with poisonous self-contempt.
"You think you're so high and mighty, Samuel?" he sneered, his words thick and stumbling. "You think your dusty old house and your stupid tweed jacket make you better than me? You want me to give up the only peace I get, just so I can polish your brass and smell your fucking potpourri?"
He slammed his fist on the bar, rattling the glasses. "Fuck off, Samuel. Just leave me alone. I don't need your pity, and I sure as hell don't need your rules. I'm better alone. I'm better off here, where at least nobody lies about being pure. I'm looking over my own life, and it's a shit show, but it's mine."
The bar music seemed to quiet slightly, the heavy atmosphere focusing on the argument.
"You don't understand anything. You're an old man sitting in your dead wife's smell, counting your pennies. You don't know what it's like to have to face the cold every night. And you think your home is some sanctuary? It's a mausoleum, Samuel. It smells like sadness and old cedar. And those roses? They're just weeds with spikes, all show and no warmth. You want me to quit? What am I supposed to replace it with? More raking? More listening to you talk about self-improvement like you're God? I'm here because I don't want to be myself for a while. So take your charity and stick it where your roses grow!"
His words, harsh and venomous, hung in the polluted air. He saw the flicker of pain, the quick, sharp betrayal in Samuel's eyes.
Samuel's face went utterly pale, his lips pressing into a thin, white line. He stood up slowly, the movement heavy with regret and finality. He didn't speak a word. He simply reached into his wallet, pulled out a thick roll of bills, the money due to Nathaniel for the completed week's work, plus a significant bonus, and threw it onto the bar counter. The crisp bills were scattered across the sticky Formica.
Then, swift and utterly unexpected, the old man's hand shot out.
Samuel slapped him once.
It was a sharp, open-handed crack that resonated through the bar. It wasn't a powerful, brutal blow, but a disciplinary, parental shock, a noise of deep disappointment. Nathaniel's head snapped back, the sting bringing a sudden, burning clarity to his eyes.
"That is the last thing you will ever receive from me, Nathaniel," Samuel said, his voice low and shaking, but terrifyingly final. "And those were the last words you will ever speak to me. Never come back again. You are not worth the saving. You have chosen the filth, and I will not pay for the mop."
Samuel turned and, with the same measured, incongruous dignity with which he entered, walked out of the bar, leaving the scent of clean wool and the sound of silence behind him.
Nathaniel sat stunned, his cheek throbbing, the sting quickly replaced by a hot, furious shame. He felt the eyes of the few regulars on him. He didn't look at the money scattered on the bar.
He finally reached for the pile of bills, gathering them up clumsily, his hands still trembling from the slap and the booze. It was a considerable amount, more than he usually made. He used it immediately for the one thing he knew how to purchase.
He tossed a large bill onto the counter. "More of the cheap stuff. And a fresh pack of smokes."
He paid for more booze, drinking deeply, viciously, determined to erase the memory of Samuel's look, the sting of the slap, and the crushing weight of the lost opportunity. He lit another cigarette and watched the smoke curl, thicker and more desperate than ever. He sat there for what felt like hours, cycling between self-hatred and drunken defiance, until the noise of the bar became unbearable and the bartender gave him the universally recognized look of leave now or I'll call someone.
He stumbled out into the cold night air, the temperature a shocking, brutal contrast to the heated, smoky bar. The whiskey did little to keep out the chill, and the world spun violently with every step.
He couldn't go back to Samuel's house, even to retrieve his meager bag of belongings. He had burned that bridge, spectacularly and irrevocably.
He found himself wandering toward the nearest public space, the small, municipal park near the train tracks. The cold was penetrating, and the grass was already frosted. He found a relatively dry bench beneath a dense pine tree, used the remaining heat of his lighter to burn the last dregs of his cigarette, and huddled into his thin jacket.
The wind howled softly through the pine needles. The money felt like lead in his pocket. The slap still stung. The finality of Samuel's rejection was an ice pick in his soul. He had chosen oblivion, and now he was alone, freezing, and more miserable than he had ever been.
He pulled his knees to his chest, the cheap booze doing a poor job of insulating him from the cold, and curled up on the hard, wooden bench in the park. The darkness swallowed him whole.
The cold was a relentless, pervasive enemy, but Nathaniel had, through the miracle of intoxication and utter exhaustion, achieved a temporary truce with it. The cheap whiskey coursed through his system, dulling the sensory input until the sharp, brutal air registered only as a distant, abstract concept. The bench was hard, the wood cold, but his mind had mercifully shut down, pulling him into the deep, dark well of unconsciousness.
In his sleep, the chaos of the bar, the sting of the slap, and the shame of Samuel's departure dissolved. He found a place of quiet, preserved memory, the space where he could still be the seventeen-year-old boy who had hope and a purpose named Lili.
He was back in the foster home. Not in the ugly, communal kitchen, but in their secret sanctuary: the storage room. It was a small, dusty space, filled with discarded furniture, yellowing textiles, and the specific, comforting smell of age and forgotten things. The only light filtered through a single, grimy windowpane high on the wall, casting a long, slanted beam that was heavy with floating motes of dust.
He saw Lili. She was sitting on an overturned trunk, her knees drawn up, looking exactly as he remembered, delicate, pale, with eyes that held too much sorrow for her age but were always fixed on him with unwavering trust.
They weren't speaking. They were simply breathing the same air, sharing the same silence. That was the purest form of their connection, the unspoken covenant that they were two islands in a sea of neglect, connected by an invisible, powerful current.
In the dream, he moved toward her, his movements slow and deliberate, powered by the innocent yearning of their youth. He reached out and gently brushed a strand of dark hair from her cheek. Her skin was cool, fragile.
He leaned in. The world shrank to the small, breathless space between their faces. He remembered the overwhelming sweetness of that moment, the terrifying, exhilarating knowledge that he was about to cross a threshold.
Their first, innocent kiss was not a sudden burst of passion, but a tentative, almost holy approach. His lips met hers softly, awkwardly, tasting faintly of dust and the nervous energy they both carried. It was a promise, a question, a confirmation of everything written in their shared glances. It lasted only a moment, but in that moment, the entire world outside the attic room ceased to exist.
Then, a sudden, inexplicable sound shattered the intimacy. It wasn't loud, but it was definite, a muffled thump from the floor below, or perhaps the creak of the old house settling. It was an intrusion from the outside world they were trying so desperately to ignore.
They broke apart instantly, their eyes wide, sharing the immediate, trained fear of being caught. They listened, holding their breath in the dim light, waiting for the sound to repeat, waiting for the punishment. But the sound didn't come again. They never knew what it was. That small, unknown noise had stopped the moment, sealing the purity of their first kiss and leaving the promise forever suspended in the air.
The scene in the storage room dissolved, the dust motes scattering into a swirling, grey void. The dream shifted, dragging him back into the cold reality of his life after Lili.
He saw himself as a spectral observer of his own misery: leaving the house, the foster home gate slamming shut behind him with a final, ugly clang. He was on the stairs of houses in the night, hunched, freezing, using his thin jacket as a pitiful barrier against the wind. He saw the cold dawn creeping over the city, and himself, thin and hollow-eyed, begging for food in the daylight, his voice raw, his pride a ghost of its former self.
The shame of the self-destructive spiral was followed by the abrupt, shocking appearance of salvation.
The scene changed again. He was standing in a bustling market square, defeated, ready to give up. And there was Samuel. The old man, severe but clean, with an air of dignified, unyielding righteousness.
He started to dream about Samuel, the first day. The old man approached him, not with pity, but with a direct, business-like question about his willingness to work. He wasn't asking for charity; he was offering a contract. Samuel extended a bony, wrinkled hand and asked him to follow him home. The invitation was a lifeline, a sudden, miraculous insertion of order into chaos.
In the dream, the early weeks were a false paradise. Samuel gave him easy tasks, sweeping the porch, wiping down windows, things that required effort but not complex thought. And every Friday, a handshake and a roll of bills. He gave him money every week, paying him honestly and fairly.
In the first weeks, he lived with the old man in his home. He had a small room, clean, warm, a sanctuary of stillness after the roaring chaos of the street. He dreamt of the smell of the lavender sachets, the polished mahogany, the secure feeling of a roof overhead that wouldn't leak. It was the first time since leaving Lili that he had felt safe, cared for, and accountable.
Then came the inevitable moment of betrayal. In the dream, Samuel didn't slap him or yell. He simply stood in the doorway of Nathaniel's clean room, holding the evidence: a small, tightly wrapped cigarette, slightly frayed, and a plastic baggy containing the familiar, acrid-smelling weed.
But when the old man found his cigarettes and drugs, he sent him out on the streets again. In the dream, the eviction wasn't cruel; it was an act of boundary, a definition of standards. I will not pay for the poison, Nathaniel. Choose your own damnation.
The shock of the eviction, even in the dream, was visceral. Nathaniel felt the sudden, crushing cold of the street return, the clean scent of Samuel's home snatched away, leaving him with nothing but the stale stench of smoke and failure.
The final, wrenching emotional blow of the dream was the sound of Samuel's disappointed voice repeating the words: You have chosen the filth, and I will not pay for the mop.
Nathaniel woke with a guttural, desperate gasp, his eyes flying open to the impenetrable blackness of the park bench. The cold instantly rushed in, an overwhelming, physical shock that replaced the memory of the warm room. His throat was dry, his head pounding with a brutal, synchronized rhythm that was part hangover, part desperation.
He was freezing. Every muscle was locked in a painful spasm, his joints aching with the damp cold. He was covered in dew and the thin, abrasive layer of pine needles from the bench. He was utterly, completely miserable.
The clarity of the dream, Lili's vulnerable face, and Samuel's final, honest stand only amplified the immediate, grinding self-hatred. He had been offered salvation, and he had literally thrown it in the face of his benefactor.
He curled tighter, shivering uncontrollably. "Filth," he spat out, the word thick and ugly on his tongue. "Fuck this. Fuck this life. Fuck the cold, and fuck Samuel's clean soul."
He reached a shaking hand into the inner pocket of his jacket, retrieving the small, waterproof baggie that held his last remnants of peace. He found the tightly rolled joint, its paper crinkled but intact. He pulled out the lighter, his fingers stiff and useless, but managed, after three agonizing attempts, to coax a small, desperate flame.
The weed cigarette lit with a soft crackle.
He brought the joint to his lips, inhaling deeply, urgently, drawing the hot, herbaceous smoke down into his frozen lungs. The immediate chemical effect was profound. The cold air receded. The throbbing pain in his skull muffled. The sharp edges of Samuel's disappointment began to soften, blurring into a distant, abstract grievance.
He took another deep drag, holding the smoke until his chest burned, and then exhaled a long, lazy plume into the dark air. The smoke was visible for a second in the dim light pollution of the city, a tangible barrier between him and the rest of the miserable world.
The chemical tide was rising, swift and final. The bench no longer felt hard. His clothes no longer felt damp. He leaned back against the rough pine bark, his muscles relaxing, his eyes half-lidded. The memories of Lili and Samuel, the guilt and the grief, were retreating, replaced by a warm, cotton-wool haze.
His heart slowed. His mind emptied. He was no longer the boy who failed, the man who was slapped, or the homeless person freezing on a bench. He was floating, drifting, weightless.
He was exactly where he wanted to be. He had successfully achieved his purpose.
After some smoking, he is not present in the real world anymore.
He was gone.