Each drop sliced through the air like a whispered insult. The cold soaked straight through his jacket, turning every breath into a visible puff of struggle. He walked carefully, his fingers ghosting along the handle of his white cane, the tapping rhythm against the pavement his only anchor in a world permanently drowned in shadow.

He was alone. He always was.

The boy — no, the young man, though life had never let him feel that — kept his chin low as voices surrounded him like a noose.

“Watch it, freak!” The shove came without warning. His shoulder slammed into a mailbox he hadn’t mapped out, the metal rattling. His cane clattered to the ground.

He froze. His fingers reached out, trembling. His ears strained for the familiar clack of his cane against the ground, but all he heard were boots kicking through puddles, and then—

Another shove. This one from behind.

He hit the ground hard, the side of his face pressing into wet concrete. A splash. Mud. A bitter laugh.

“Where’s your dog, huh? Or are even they too good for you?”

Laughter. Mocking. Footsteps circling.

He didn’t cry. He never cried in front of them.

His fingers groped across the wet street, finally brushing the cool plastic handle of his cane. He grabbed it like a lifeline, just as a boot came down and kicked it away again. The cane spun, landing with a sharp clack against the curb.

“Oops.”

They pushed him again. His hands scraped pavement. Blood mixed with rain. One of them leaned down close to his ear.

“Why don’t you open your eyes, huh? Or are they just decoration?”

“I can’t see,” Ethan said. Quiet. Broken. His voice barely carried past the thunder rumbling in the distance. “I’ve never seen anything.”

Another push.

He didn’t hit the ground this time. He caught himself. He was used to it now.

But still, it hurt.

He stumbled toward where he’d last heard his cane land. Each step was hesitant, tapping without rhythm, fingers outstretched like broken branches reaching for light that would never come.

The rain hid his tears. But not from himself.

“Stupid blind freak,” someone muttered as they walked away, footsteps fading into the downpour.

He stood in the middle of the street. Soaked. Shaking. Bloody. Alone.

A final kick slammed into his ribs from behind. He dropped to one knee with a sharp gasp, clutching his side.

“Do the world a favor,” the voice spat, cruel and close. “Next time, don’t get up.”

And then they were gone.

All that remained was the storm. And him. Kneeling in it. Still breathing.

Barely.