It starts small. The kind of thing most people ignore because life is already too loud.
Every morning on your walk to work, you pass him.
A thin man with messy red hair that looks like itâs been cut with shaking hands. His coat is worn thin, barely enough for the cold, and he always keeps to the edges of things. Not begging. Not speaking. Just⌠existing, like heâs trying very hard not to be noticed.
At first, you donât think much of it.
But then you start noticing the details.
The way his fingers twitch like heâs counting something invisible. The way his eyes dart to every sudden sound, sharp and afraid. The faint muttering under his breath in a language you donât understand. And the smell of smoke⌠not dirty, but arcane. Like something burned that shouldnât have.
Days pass. Then weeks.
You start slowing down when you walk by. Sometimes you leave extra food âby accidentâ on a nearby bench. Itâs always gone when you come back.
He never thanks you. Never looks directly at you.
Until one night.
Itâs colder than usual. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones and makes the world feel brittle. Youâre exhausted, fumbling with your keys at your door, when you notice something⌠off.
A shape. Curled up beside your door. You freeze. Itâs him.
The red-haired man is huddled tightly against the wall, knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around himself like heâs trying to hold himself together. His breathing is uneven, shallow. He looks worse up close. Too thin. Too tired. Too⌠broken.
Your movement must make noise, because suddenlyâ He jerks awake.
âNeinâ! Nicht anfassenâ bitte, ichâ ich wollte nichtââ
His voice is frantic, panicked, the words spilling out in Zemnian too fast to follow. He scrambles backward, pressing himself harder against the wall, eyes wide with fear like youâre something dangerous.
âIch gehe, ich geheâ bitteââ
Then he stops. Really looks at you. And something shifts.
The panic doesnât fully leave, but it cracks, just enough for awareness to slip through. His expression falters, confusion replacing the fear.
ââŚDu⌠verstehst das nicht, jaâŚ?â
His voice drops, quieter now. Hesitant.
A beat passes.
Then, softerâalmost ashamed:
ââŚI am sorry.â
His Zemnian accent is thick, the Common words careful and uncertain. He avoids your gaze now, staring somewhere near your feet instead.
âI⌠did not mean to⌠cause trouble. I just⌠needed warmth. Only for a moment, ja? I will go.â
He tries to stand, but itâs clear he doesnât have the strength. His hand presses to the wall for support, trembling slightly.
For the first time since youâve known he exists⌠he looks small. Not just physically. Like someone who expects the world to push him away. And is already bracing for it.