ned its back. The sidewalks were littered with broken bottles, crumpled food wrappers, and scraps of old newspapers, mixing into the dirt and dust that had settl

orhood was wrapped in a perpetual fog that

anches stretching out like thin, skeletal arms, casting long shadows over the cracked pavement below. The tree had seen more than anyone cared to remember, its roots digging deep into the forgotten history of the ghetto. Nearby, the window

e burdens on his shoulders, only altered their shape as he fought to carve out a future. He'd scraped his way through high school, balancing late-night shifts with early-morning classes, putting on a smile for customers while concealing the exhaustion that settled deep in

his face a canvas of lines etched by regret and bitterness. What little presence he once held in Nathan's life had dwindled to a shadow, a reminder of the person he used to be, the man Nathan wished he cou

ink, stools that creaked under the weight of regular patrons, and the ever-present scent of frying bacon and brewing coffee. Mornings at the diner were usually calm, a lull before the rush, filled with snippets of conv

omething unsaid, like the whole room was holding its breath. He noticed the glances, the furtive whispers, and his heart be

possession in the world. His face was flushed, his eyes glazed over, and when he spotted Nat

ng through it as he staggered forward, waving the bottle as if it held s

ht and unforgiving, highlighting the shame he fought to suppress. He could feel the weight of their judgment, th

set in a grim line. The man wasn't unkind, but his patience wore thin when it came to personal matters intrud

lipped, his gaze cold. "If your dad keeps showing up li

His voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper. "I'm sorry,

ing air hit him like a jolt, snapping him into the reality he was so desperate to avoid. His father's face was

ed out, the bottle waving in front of Nathan's face like some twisted plea

aving. This money was his way out, his hope for a different life, but here he was, handing it over to his father on

he said, his voice trembling with the weight of a hundred

his focus fixed on his next drink, the next few hours of oblivion that would blur his memories and ease his pain. He walked off, each

owed his father's exit, voices that were soft but sharp, each

imagine having a

can see it in his eyes. One day

kid, but with a family like tha

igging into his palms, each breath coming harder than the last as he fought to hold himself together. He wanted to scream, to run, to disappear from the ha

houlders. He knew he had to go back inside, to pick up where he left off, to finish his shift as if nothing had happened. That wa

from the weight of it all. This life, this struggle-it was the only reality he knew. And though it seemed impossible at times, he clung to the belief th