Alan walked with heavy footsteps, the soft whizz of his worn-out shoes echoing through the quiet streets. Exhaustion clung to him like a heavy blanket; he had spent the entire day searching for any small task that might earn him enough for a drink—a brief escape from his bleak reality. As he wandered through the desolate parts of the city, he avoided the well-off areas. His temper was short, and he knew he'd lose control if he had to face those who had more than they deserved.
Hunger gnawed at him like a living thing, relentless in its demands. Despite his better judgment, he found himself heading toward a familiar spot. An old woman lived nearby, known for feeding the stray cats with whatever leftovers she could spare. Her house, with its peeling paint and sagging porch, was a relic of a time long past. Though rundown, the house was filled with relatively new furniture—gifts from her children, reminders of their visits and concern. She had a pension and grandchildren with steady government jobs, so she didn't lack for money. But her true joy came from the stray cats that appeared like clockwork every afternoon, knowing they would be fed.
Alan's luck held today. The old woman had just put out some stale, soggy bread and water for the seven or so cats that gathered in her yard. She set the food down in small plastic bowls, then retreated inside, seeking refuge from the cold that had begun to creep into the air. The moment she closed the door, Alan made his move.
Crossing the street from where he had been lurking in the shadows, he quickly grabbed the bread and water, shoving them down his throat with a desperation that startled even him. The cats meowed in confusion, their dinner stolen, but Alan paid them no mind.
Suddenly, the old woman reappeared on her porch. Alan froze, expecting anger, but instead, her gaze softened. She didn't scold him. In fact, she seemed to understand.
"Come inside," she said, her voice calm, yet inviting.
Alan tensed. He could run—he should run. His mind screamed at him to flee, but his body, weak from days of hunger, betrayed him. Despite his suspicion, the growl in his belly begged to differ, pulling him toward the house. He gave in, but not without caution. He had no choice.
Inside, the warmth of the house hit him first. Every surface was cluttered with knickknacks, but the furniture was surprisingly new—a recent couch, a polished coffee table, chairs that didn't match the home's decrepit exterior. It was clear that her children, or perhaps her grandchildren, had contributed these pieces in an effort to make her life a bit easier. The contrast between the old, crumbling walls and the new furniture unsettled Alan, making him wonder what kind of life this woman led.
Clarisse, as she introduced herself, cleared off a pile of old magazines from the couch and motioned for Alan to sit. He hesitated—he was filthy—but she didn't seem to mind. The couch, its fabric still soft and barely worn, provided a comfort that Alan hadn't felt in years. He let out a small sigh as he sank into it, the weight of his exhaustion finally catching up to him.
"I'll make you some chamomile tea," she said, disappearing into the kitchen.
Alan's mind raced. Why was she being so kind? What did she want from him? His instincts told him not to trust her, but the rumble in his stomach gave voice to a different need. He'd just stolen from her, and now she was offering him tea? The thought made him uneasy, and he kept an eye on the door, preparing himself to bolt if anything seemed off.
But before he could dwell too much on it, the old woman returned with the tea, the steam curling lazily from the cup she handed him. He hesitated, sniffing it cautiously, but the warmth called to him. He took a small sip, letting the heat spread through him. For a moment, the growl in his stomach quieted, soothed by the tea.
Still, Alan remained on edge. His eyes flickered over the room, noting the pictures on the mantle—family photos, a graduation portrait of her grandson, a few black-and-white images of her younger self. Each item in the room seemed to hold a story, yet none of it felt threatening. The old woman sat nearby, her hands busy knitting as though he wasn't even there.
Alan could no longer fight his exhaustion. His eyes drooped, the tea warming his belly and relaxing his frayed nerves. Despite his cautious mind, his body gave in, and soon, he was asleep.
When he awoke, darkness had fallen. The room was quiet, save for the rhythmic clicking of the woman's knitting needles. A thick blanket, soft and warm, covered him. He blinked, confused at first, before realizing where he was.
"You've woken up," Clarisse said with a chuckle. "For a moment, I thought you'd gone and died on me."
Alan, still groggy, felt tears well up in his eyes. The kindness, the warmth—it was too much. "Why did you invite me in?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
She paused, looking at him thoughtfully. "You remind me of someone," she said softly. "And… I see potential in you, Alan. Don't let that light die."
He wanted to argue, to tell her she was wrong. He wasn't worth her kindness. But before he could say anything, his stomach growled again, louder this time, as if it had a voice of its own. Clarisse laughed, a gentle sound that eased his embarrassment.
"I've prepared a shower for you," she said, standing up. "And some clothes. They belonged to my son—should fit you well enough."
Alan nodded, too tired to protest. The growl in his belly was all the argument he needed.
As he stepped into the shower, the warm water cascaded over him, washing away the grime and weariness that had clung to him for so long. He scrubbed his skin, watching the dirt swirl down the drain like the remnants of a past he wished he could forget. Each scar he revealed told a story, one he wasn't proud of, but they were stories nonetheless—of survival, of pain, of choices that couldn't be undone.
When he finished, he dressed in the clean clothes Clarisse had left for him—a simple checkered shirt, loose brown khakis, and suspenders that reminded him of a time when things were simpler.
Downstairs, the smell of soup greeted him, rich and inviting. He found Clarisse in the kitchen, ladling out bowls of creamy vegetable bisque, its aroma filling the small, cluttered room.
"Come," she said with a smile. "You must be starving."
Alan couldn't argue with that. He sat at the table, noting how out of place his formal setting seemed for such a humble meal. But Clarisse only smiled at his precision.
"You surprise me, Alan," she said, sitting down across from him. "Tomorrow, I'd like to hear your story. No judgment."
For the first time in a long time, Alan allowed himself to relax. Tomorrow could wait.