Wednesday dawned with a strange air, as if the city sensed something on the horizon. Lucy woke before his alarm, sitting on the edge of his bed. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw David's dark thread spreading like ink roots.
"You're up already?" his mother called from the kitchen.
"Yeah, coming," he replied.
Downstairs, she hummed an old tune while pouring coffee. Lucy watched her quietly. Her gray thread was faint but ever-present. That weariness never fully left.
They ate together, talking about trivialities—market prices, neighbors, weekly anecdotes. Lucy smiled, but his mind planned the day. Today he wouldn't just watch. He'd try to understand who David was beyond cafeteria rumors.
At school, whispers lingered.
"They say David digs in backpacks."
"I hide my lunch now, just in case."
"Guy's creepy, isn't he?"
Lucy clenched his teeth. Most spoke without proof, scavengers circling an unseen corpse.
During recess, he sat near Emily and others, pretending to listen while watching. Students stole glances at David eating alone. His thread swirled darker, but now guilt glimmered inside, tangled with bottomless hunger.
Lucy jotted under the desk:
Rumors: backpack theft, fear.
Reality: thread shows guilt, anxiety.
Possible emotional void.
Later in PE, he approached one of David's few acquaintances, a thin boy named Marcos.
"Hey, do you know David well?" Lucy asked while jogging.
Marcos blinked.
"Not really. We were on the same soccer team last year, but he quit."
"Why?"
"He always said he was tired. And when he showed up, he fought with everyone. I think he's got problems at home."
That word—home—hit Lucy like a bullet.
That afternoon, instead of heading straight home, Lucy followed David discreetly.
The path led out of the main streets into a run-down neighborhood, walls stained, tin roofs sagging. David walked fast, backpack slung on one shoulder.
Lucy stopped half a block away from a peeling-painted house. David entered, slamming the door.
He activated the Eyes. Threads spilled from the house—heavy, gray, tangled, misery embedded in the walls. One thread in particular wavered fragilely, as if tied to someone sick inside.
Lucy held his breath. He understood instantly: David wasn't carrying only his own emptiness. Someone inside depended on him.
He walked home slowly, heart pounding. Each step carried him away, but the images stuck.
At home, his mother folded clothes on the sofa.
"You're late," she said, glancing up.
"Stayed studying," Lucy lied.
She didn't press, just handed him a pile to fold. As they worked side by side, Lucy thought of David: the solitude at lunch, the classmates' whispers, the shadowed house.
That night, he wrote firmly in his notebook:
David isn't just stealing food.
He lives with someone sick. His void isn't hunger—it's desperation.
The thread doesn't only show sin. It shows suffering.
He closed it, realizing something vital: judgment was near, but it couldn't be mere punishment. He had to understand before sentencing.
And as he switched off the light, he couldn't shake the feeling someone, somewhere, was waiting for him to make exactly that choice.