The river wind was colder than he expected. At dawn in Washington, D.C., as the sun rose late and the city's monuments lay pale in the mist, the air hovered near 4.3 °C (39.7 °F), and the humidity pressed at his collar.
He stood on the cracked concrete sidewalk just off a broad avenue in the older part of the city. Tall buildings of white marble and granite rose on either side; their façades brushed by the chill dawn, their windows glazed with condensing breathe. Buses rumbled past, exhaust scent hanging, and tourists few at this hour clustered by the memorials, their cameras already lifted.
Garret Widen wore a suit that once must've held promise. Now it was a tired shape: a formal grey suit jacket elegant only in memory, the fabric fraying at the elbows, the trousers creased and stained. His white shirt was pocked and dulled by grime, the tail hanging loose from the waistband, giving his posture a droop. His black tie, askew and loose, hung at an angle as though he'd given up adjusting it long ago. His dark hair, unkempt and falling over his left eye, cast a thin shadow. Across his right cheek, a jagged scar ran like coarse thread stitching the skin: a reminder of a night his body refused to forget.
He looked like someone who had once carried dignity or at least the hope of it but whose nights now were measured in park benches and stepped-over body heat.
He had no fixed address. The city counted about 5,138 people experiencing homelessness at the January 2025 point-in-time count.
He blended among them: a quiet presence on a wooden bench in a tucked green an unremarkable nook beside the faint glow of street-lamps at the edge of a public park. The park's trees were skeletal now, late autumn stripping them nearly bare; long shadows reached across the damp grass, fallen leaves collecting in corners where no one walked.
Garret had found the black crow two nights ago. The bird lay trembling under a street-lamp, one wing crumpled, its eyes half-closed. He carried it back here, to the bench, wrapping it in a frayed coat he scavenged. He whispered to it. He fed it crumbs from a half-eaten sandwich. The city's early-morning sanitation trucks had passed nearby, grinding past discarded cups, plastic bottles, and the detritus of lives that slipped through the cracks.
In the misty dawn he opened his eyes. The bench felt harder than he remembered; the metal armrest cold, biting at his elbow. He looked around. The park was empty. At a distance, a jogger passed, headphones on, breathing evenly; a street-sweeper's machine hummed faintly on the avenue. But for the most part, nothing moved.
His crow was gone. No gentle rustle of wings, no soft clicking of its beak against bits of bread. He pressed his palms into his thighs, stood, brushed off small bits of leaf and grit from the bench. He wanted to call its name whatever name he'd given it but the word stuck in his throat.
He walked. Past the memorial fountains, past the tourists' strollers, past the ever-present reminder of power and stone that the city embodied: the pillars, the columns, the flags, echoing glories of history. He froze for a moment in front of a bronze statue of a soldier: boots planted, rifle held loosely, face determined. The boy scout uniforms of early morning tourist guides were absent now. Only him. And the cold.
His stomach grumbled. He glanced at his watch: nearly eight in the morning. The sidewalks were slick with dew, the air smelled of damp pavement, and the faint scent of coffee from a café up the block drew his attention. He perched at the curb, watching baristas in the window place steaming cups on trays. He didn't have the few dollars to buy one. He touched the scar at his cheek, felt the ridge beneath his fingertips.
And then a man approached. Tall, dressed in an old-style long wool overcoat of dark green, with three large black buttons down the front, a wide collar turned up at the back, and a bowler hat pulled low. His shoes clicked quietly on the pavement. He carried a small leather bag. The man sat down beside Garret without waiting for invitation. The man's face was composed; a brown-mustached smile curled at the edges of his lips. He lifted a small paper cup from his coat's inner pocket and handed it to Garret: coffee still steaming.
"I'm Michael Mortem," the man said, voice low and calm. "And I have thirty days for you."
Garret stared at the cup, then at the man. The breath came in shallow waves. The city's tide of traffic and footsteps kept flowing, and yet here was a moment suspended: the cold air, the city grey behind him, a sense that the night he'd begun was stretching into something else.
Michael tilted his head. "You may wonder why. You may wonder what you did. Doesn't matter. You will live for thirty days longer and during that time you will see how others die."
He closed his eyes and Garret thought: all the nights I've tried to sleep here, all the aches, all the hunger. Why me?
"The gift I give you," Michael continued, "is the 'weird sight'. If you use it too often, you will suffer what you see." He sipped the coffee. "Use it or don't. Your choice."
And then: "Don't waste the thirty days. After that… and then forever."
Garret didn't reply. The green coat man stood, brushed a bit of lint from his lapel, and walked off into the grey morning. Garret watched his retreating steps until he merged into the traffic, into the bus stops, into the city's grinding dawn.
He held the coffee cup in trembling hands. A single drop of steam rose. And in that instant the world felt heavier.
Garret took a long swallow. The coffee burned his tongue. He looked up at the sky. The sun was behind clouds, the day coming. He thought of his crow. He thought of his bench.
He said nothing.
He folded his jacket tighter around his body and set off down the avenue.