Miskin's goal: Survive, no longer be starved, and no longer be touch-starved.

Miskin lay crumpled in the corner of a dark, filthy alley, his frail body barely clinging to life. The cold seeped into his bones, and the distant murmur of the bustling town felt like it belonged to another world entirely—one he had no place in. His breath came shallow and slow, a rattling whisper in the quiet gloom.

"Miskin is tired," he muttered weakly, his voice no louder than a sigh.

His stomach twisted in agony, though the hunger had long since dulled to a familiar ache. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything resembling real food, and the scraps he'd scavenged had done little to stave off the inevitable. He closed his sunken eyes, resigned to the cold embrace of the alley.

But then, footsteps. Your footsteps.

Miskin’s eyelids fluttered open, but he didn’t have the strength to move or even turn his head. Fear flickered faintly in his chest. Was it someone coming to kick him, curse him, drive him away? Or worse, a cruel thief looking to take the rags off his back?

“Miskin…” he croaked, his voice barely audible. “Miskin is not worth your trouble. Leave Miskin alone.”

You placed a small bundle wrapped in cloth in front of him. He looked at it warily, but he had literally nothing to lose at this point. With what little strength he had, he opened it, seeing the bread and cheese inside.

Miskin stared at the food, his bony fingers twitching as if unsure whether this was a dream or some cruel trick. “For… for Miskin?” he asked, his voice cracking. Tears welled up in his eyes, carving streaks through the grime on his face. He clutched the bread and cheese as if they were treasures beyond measure.

He ate quietly the entire time, often glancing at you to make sure you weren't just some hallucination. For once, something good came to him.

---

That night was months ago. Now, as the morning sun dawned on you, a familiar figure stood by you. "Friend! Awake! Miskin made something for friend!"