Anya sat down on the cold metal bench, its chill biting right through the coat as she huddled deeper into it. The world had, in the course of a little more than a day, come unstuck; it left her with nowhere to go, no one to turn to. She gazed out at the floor, hands shaking as she clutched her bag, all she had now.
Around her, the city went by with its usual indifference. Cars honked, people passed by in hurried strides, and the occasional bark of a street vendor's pitch cut through the air. The world didn't stop for heartbreak.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, a small reminder of the call she made to Flora. She had one last thread, a friend whom she was hoping would answer and pull her back from the very edge of despair. She looked at the screen, no response yet. A lump formed in her throat, and she swallowed hard to keep herself from crying in public.
As her eyes wandered, she locked onto a small group across the street. They stood in a semicircle around an older man with wild gray hair and a warm, weathered face. He crouched low, animatedly telling a story to the children gathered around him.
The scene pulled at something inside of her. She could hardly hear the man's voice, but his movements and expressions told her everything she needed to know. The children hung on his every word, their eyes wide with wonder, occasionally breaking into giggles.
One of the boys a child no older than ten with a frayed scarf and scuffed shoes, caught her watching. He tilted his head, curious, then gave her a small, hesitant wave. Anya blinked, unsure how to respond, but her hand moved almost instinctively, offering a shy wave in return.
The boy beamed and leaned forward to whisper something to the older man, who looked in Anya's direction. He nodded as if to say, "Go ahead," and the boy pulled away from the group, clutching something in his small hands.
As he came near, Anya sat up straight, unsure of what to expect.
Hi," the boy said, voice soft but steady. He held out a paper crane, with folds precise, though some faint smudges stood out on the edges of the paper. "For you," he said.
Anyas throat tightened as she stared at the crane. She reached out for it, her fingers brushing across his as she took in the delicate creation.
She murmured her thanks above a whisper.
The boy smiled, a gap-toothed grin that seemed impossibly bright against the gray backdrop of her day. "He says everyone needs something to hold onto when they're sad," he explained, nodding toward the man across the street.
She hadn't time to say anything before the boy dashed back to his friends, leaving her standing there with the crane. She flipped it over in her hands, tracing the folds, marveling at how something so simple could be so full of meaning.
The man noticed her hesitation and crossed the street. He moved with a quiet deliberation, his hands thrust into the pockets of his worn jacket.
"Good evening," he said, his voice gravelly but kind. "I hope my little friend didn't bother you."
"No, not at all," Anya replied quickly. "He was. sweet. This is lovely." She held up the crane.
The man smiled, his eyes crinkling. "I'm Ross. I run a small organization nearby a place for kids who need a bit of extra care and understanding. I noticed you sitting here. You looked like you could use a kind word or two."
Anya blinked. He was so direct that she felt a little jarred. "I. I've just had a rough day."
Ross nodded, his face understanding. "Haven't we all?" he said. "But the thing about rough days is that they pass. And sometimes, the people we meet during them make all the difference."
There was something in his voice that made her chest ache. She hadn't seen kindness like this in a while.
If you're up for it, you're welcome to come by," Ross said. "The kids love seeing new faces, and seems like you have a gentle spirit. We could always use someone like you around."
She was going to say no. To step into a room of people, to open up when she felt so exposed, was terrifying. But the warmth in Ross's eyes, the way he said she had something to give them when all sense of self was being peeled from her, made her stop.
"Where is it?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
"Just a few blocks from here," Ross replied. "We have a little shelter and a center where we help kids with unique challenges. It's not much, but it's warm, and it's a place to breathe."
Any thoughts of the emptiness waiting for her at the end of the night, the cold streets, and the overwhelming silence filled Anya's head as she nodded slowly. "All right. I'll go."
Ross smiled again, a quiet triumph in his expression. "You won't regret it."
He led her across the street, where children greeted her with shy looks and curious smiles. A boy with a scarf waved for the second time, this time clutching tightly the paper crane he clutched.
It was just a short walk to the center, but it was like miles away from all the despair she had been drowning in. When they arrived, Anya felt an overwhelming warmth emanating from the place. The walls were painted with colors, the faint sound of laughter echoed from somewhere inside, and the smell of freshly baked bread hung in the air.
"This is it," Ross said, swinging open the door for her. "Home for some, a safe place for others. And for you, it can be whatever you need."
Anya's chest grew tight as she stepped inside. She did not know what tomorrow would bring, but for the first time in weeks, she felt a flicker of hope.
She clutched the paper crane tightly in her hand. Maybe, just maybe, she could start again.
An old house. Anya's heart was heavy as she entered the small room Ross and the older woman, Martha, had shown her. It wasn't much: a modest bed, a wooden chair, and a window that overlooked the bustling street below. The walls were bare except for a single framed quote that read,
"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul."