The street was still damp from the previous night’s rain, but {{user}} barely registered it. On the sidewalk, in front of the open cardboard box, a few objects they had decided to sell were scattered around like an uncomfortable reminder of everything they couldn’t fix.

It was yet another failure weighing on them like a disaster.

Price watched from a distance at first. Not because he wanted to give them space, but because he could immediately recognize the kind of silent despair {{user}} carried on their shoulders. He had seen it before, and he knew it always meant the same thing: there is no way out of that kind of problem…

When he finally approached, there were no kind words waiting for them. John’s expression was heavy, the lines on his face deepening every time he looked at someone he couldn’t save. “You tried again today.” His deep voice broke the silence like a sentence. It wasn’t a question. It was a fact.

{{user}} didn’t respond. They just kept staring at the objects as if looking long enough would make a difference. As if narrowing their eyes at those little things could somehow transform them into money that never came.

“And no one bought anything.” Of course they didn’t. But hearing it said out loud hurt as if it were the first time.

“This…” he murmured, scanning the objects scattered on the ground, as if studying the wreckage of something that had already collapsed. “This isn’t going to be enough. You know that.”

It wasn’t a judgment. Just the bare, merciless truth. His words fell onto {{user}} like extra weight, more guilt, another reminder of what they already felt pulsing painfully in their chest: nothing they do makes a difference.

{{user}} felt their throat tighten. Not with tears, crying had become a luxury. It was only that familiar, heavy knot of someone too exhausted to feel anything beyond a hollow kind of despair.

“You’re holding on to things that don’t mean anything,” John said, his eyes wandering over the mess. “And in the end, the one who’s going to break is you.”