The boy stood motionless on the bridge, his breath visible in the cold night air. His fingers trembled as they cradled the smooth metallic sphere the stranger had given him. The faint hum of cars rushing below filled the silence, a quiet backdrop to the storm of emotions swirling inside him.

  He stared into the darkened street where the man had disappeared, his words still echoing in his mind: “Things will get better. No storm lasts forever.”

  The man had been a stranger—someone who had appeared at the exact moment when the boy’s despair had overwhelmed him. He had pulled him back from the edge, literally and figuratively, with an instinctive kindness that felt both foreign and undeserved. The boy tightened his grip on the sphere, its weight grounding him even as his thoughts spun out of control.

  He didn’t know why the man had cared so much. Why he had risked himself for someone he didn’t know. But the stranger’s words, though simple, had ignited something small and fragile within him. Not hope—not yet—but something close. A faint warmth in the cold darkness of his life.

  But even as he clung to that warmth, reality gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. The boy took a shaky breath, staring down at the sphere. Nothing’s really changed. The world hasn’t changed. I’m still trapped.

  The boy began walking, his steps slow and deliberate as he made his way through the empty streets of Greyflint. The cold air stung his face, a sharp contrast to the numbness inside him. He tucked the sphere into his pocket, its presence both a comfort and a reminder.

  He felt gratitude—he couldn’t deny that. Gratitude for the man’s kindness, for the way he had listened without judgment, for the small moment of solace he had offered. But alongside it came guilt, a heavy weight pressing against his chest. The man had saved him without hesitation, without knowing anything about him, and the boy couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t deserve it.

  His mind replayed the moment he had stood on the edge of the bridge, staring down at the rushing cars below. He had been ready to let go, to end it all—not because he wanted to, but because he felt like there was no other choice. The guilt of that decision burned in his chest now, sharp and unrelenting.

  And yet, despite everything, the man had reached out to him. He had told him to keep fighting, to believe that things could get better. The boy wanted to believe him. But deep down, he couldn’t. No one’s coming to save me. No hero, no stranger, no one. I already know that.

  As he walked, his surroundings became more familiar. The crumbling buildings, the broken streetlights, the graffiti-streaked walls—this was Greyflint. His home. A place where hope had long since withered away. The boy’s footsteps echoed in the silence, each one a reminder of the life he was returning to.

  He thought of the police, of how they had dismissed his sister’s pleas for help. The system was broken, unable or unwilling to stand up to the Black Skulls. And the heroes—those bright symbols of justice and hope—they were nowhere to be found. They didn’t come to places like Greyflint. There was no glory to be had here, no recognition or rewards.

  The boy had spent years waiting for someone to save them, to step in and free him and his sister from the gang’s grip. But no one had come. No one ever would.

  His hands curled into fists inside his pockets as his chest tightened with anger and despair. There are no heroes. Not for people like me and Eliza

  When he reached the apartment building, the boy hesitated at the door. The flickering light above cast jagged shadows on the cracked wood, its dim glow barely illuminating the peeling paint and rusted metal of the frame. For a moment, he just stood there, staring, his breath visible in the cold air. His chest felt tight, the weight of the night pressing down on him with unrelenting force.

  His thoughts drifted to his sister. She had given up so much for him—her freedom, her dreams, her chance to become a doctor—all to shield him from the consequences of his mistakes. Every sacrifice she made felt like another stone added to the mountain of guilt that threatened to crush him. She had taken on more than she should ever have been asked to, becoming more than just his sister. She had become everything: his protector, his provider, his hope.

  The least I can do is keep going, he thought, his hand tightening on the sphere in his pocket. For her. For Eliza.

  Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open. The familiar warmth of the apartment greeted him, along with the faint smell of curry lingering in the air. The space was small, cluttered, but clean. A secondhand couch sat in the center of the room, its cushions patched and worn. A rickety table stood by the wall, covered in neatly stacked papers and an empty coffee mug. Despite its humble state, the apartment felt lived-in, loved—and it was all thanks to Eliza’s efforts.

  “There you are, Joshua. Where were you!?” Eliza’s voice called from the kitchen, sharp with worry.

  He shrugged off his jacket and set it on the couch, the sphere still tucked safely in his pocket. “Out,” he said quietly, his voice subdued.

  Eliza stepped into the room, her dark hair tied back in a loose bun, her expression softening when her eyes landed on him. She crossed her arms, though her posture betrayed more relief than frustration. Her face was lined with exhaustion, the kind that came from working too many hours for too little pay, but there was a quiet warmth in her gaze.

  “I thought I told you to let me know when you’re staying out late,” she said, her tone firm but not angry. “I was worried.”

  Joshua shifted on his feet, unable to meet her eyes. “Sorry,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

  Eliza studied him for a moment, her arms dropping to her sides as she stepped closer. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice softening. “Did something happen at school?”

  He hesitated, the words sticking in his throat. He wanted to tell her everything—the stranger on the bridge, how close he had come to giving up, the suffocating guilt that had nearly consumed him. But the weight of it all felt too heavy, too impossible to put into words. “No, it’s nothing like that,” he said finally. “Just... tired.”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Her eyes lingered on him, searching for something she couldn’t quite find, before she nodded. “Alright then,” she said, her tone gentler now. “You’re a little late, but the curry I made should still be warm if you’re hungry.” She paused, glancing at him with a faint smile. “Or you can rest if you’re tired. And don’t worry about this month’s payment—your big sister managed to pull together enough money after all.”

  Joshua’s heart sank at her words. The way she said it, in a eureka tone despite the exhaustion laced in her words, as if scraping together money for the Black Skulls was just another chore on her endless list of responsibilities, made his chest ache. He hated that this was their reality, that she carried this burden for him. He hated that he had put her in this position in the first place.

  She placed her hands gently on his shoulders, her touch light but grounding. Her smile was small, but it was there—reassuring, even as it masked her own exhaustion. “I know today’s been hard,” she said, her voice quiet. “But we’re going to get through this. One step at a time.”

  Joshua swallowed hard, nodding as the ache in his chest deepened. She always tried to be strong for him, even when she had every reason to fall apart. And that only made his guilt heavier. She deserves so much better than this.

  With a final squeeze of his shoulders, Eliza let her hands drop. “Go eat something, or get some rest. I’ll be in the room if you need me.”

  She retreated toward the bedroom, leaving Joshua standing alone in the dimly lit room. He sank onto the couch, his body heavy with exhaustion. The cushions sagged beneath his weight, their worn fabric a testament to years of use. He pulled the sphere from his pocket, cradling it in his hands as his thoughts churned.

  The sphere was small and smooth, its metallic surface reflecting the faint light of the single bulb above. As he turned it over in his hands, the stranger’s words echoed in his mind once more: “Things will get better. No storm lasts forever.”

  Joshua wanted to believe him. He wanted to hold onto the flicker of hope the man had offered, to let it fill the empty spaces inside him. But his life had been a storm for so long that he didn’t know what better even looked like. The weight of their reality—the payments, the fear, the unrelenting grip of the Black Skulls—pressed down on him, suffocating and inescapable.

  And yet, as he sat there, he thought of Eliza. Of her strength, her sacrifices, her unwavering love. She had given up everything for him, had fought for him when no one else would. The least he could do was keep going—for her. If he couldn’t find hope for himself, he could at least hold onto it for her.

  As the apartment settled into silence, Joshua closed his eyes, the weight of the night pressing down on him. He didn’t know if things would ever truly get better. But for Eliza, he would endure. For her, he would keep fighting.

  The quiet hum of the city at night seeped through the apartment’s thin walls, blending with the occasional creak of the old building. In her small bedroom, Eliza sat cross-legged on the bed, her hands meticulously sorting and counting a pile of wrinkled bills. The dim light from the bedside lamp cast soft shadows over her face, accentuating the lines of exhaustion that had etched themselves into her features.

  The money was all there, but her fingers trembled as she smoothed out each note, stacking them into neat piles. This was the part she hated most—watching weeks of relentless work reduced to numbers, destined to be handed over to the people who had stolen her freedom. She clenched her jaw, her grip tightening on the edge of a bill before she let out a shaky breath and placed it in the stack.

  The money was the product of a life that barely felt like her own anymore. For years, Eliza’s world had revolved around work—three jobs that consumed every ounce of her time and energy.

  Her mornings started in the dark, scrubbing floors and emptying trash bins as a janitor from 3 a.m. to 7 a.m. The cold, chemical-laden air always clung to her skin, the smell of bleach following her no matter how many times she scrubbed her hands. From 8 a.m. to 4:30 p.m., she worked as a receptionist at a clinic, fielding endless phone calls, directing patients, and enduring the sharp words of people too sick or stressed to notice her strained smile. Then, after a rushed trip home to cook for herself and Joshua, she was back out the door, heading to her evening shift as a waitress from 6 p.m. to 10 p.m., dodging drunk customers and brushing off the leers of catcallers.

  By the time she returned home at 11 p.m., her body ached, her feet throbbed, and her mind buzzed with exhaustion. And yet, she did it all again the next day, the weight of their survival pressing down on her shoulders like a stone she could never set down.

  Today, though, was different. Today was a "sick day," a rare break taken not for rest, but for the payment. The Black Skulls didn’t wait, didn’t care about her endless hours or her aching body. They demanded their cut, and Eliza had no choice but to comply.

  Eliza carefully placed the counted bills into the worn leather bag sitting beside her, her movements slow and deliberate. The weight of it in her hands felt heavier than usual, though she knew it wasn’t the money itself—it was what it represented. Another month bought, another month lost. She stared at the bag for a moment, her fingers curling around the handle.

  A soft knock on the door broke her thoughts. She looked up to see Joshua standing in the doorway, his face partially obscured by the shadows of the dimly lit room. His expression was quiet, almost hesitant, but there was a determination in his eyes that gave her pause.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked gently, her voice instinctively softening. “Do you need something?”

  Joshua stepped into the room, his hands buried in his pockets. “I’m going with you,” he said, his tone firm despite the uncertainty in his posture.

  Eliza blinked, her brow furrowing. “No,” she said quickly, setting the bag down. “You’re staying here. It’s not safe.”

  “I know it’s not,” Joshua replied, his voice trembling slightly but steady. “But I can’t let you do this alone anymore.”

  She crossed the room to stand in front of him, placing her hands on his shoulders. “Joshua,” she said softly, her voice tinged with a mix of exhaustion and protectiveness. “You don’t need to be involved in this. I can handle it. I’ve been handling it.”

  “You shouldn’t have to,” he said, his words quiet but firm. “You’ve done enough for me—more than enough. And I’m not just going to sit here and let you carry this by yourself.”

  Eliza’s heart ached as she stared into his eyes, so filled with determination despite the weight she knew he carried. She wanted to argue, to tell him that he was too young, that this wasn’t his responsibility. But she knew it wouldn’t matter. He wasn’t going to back down.

  “Joshua,” she began, her voice trembling slightly, “this isn’t your fight.”

  “And it shouldn’t be yours either,” he said, cutting her off. “But you’re still here, doing everything you can for me. I can’t let you do this alone, Eliza. I won’t.”

  Her chest tightened, and for a moment, she felt tears threaten to rise. She blinked them away, biting her lip as she nodded slowly. “Alright,” she said quietly. “But you stay close to me. You don’t say a word, and you let me handle everything. Understand?”

  Joshua nodded, his expression resolute. “I promise.”

  Eliza let out a sigh, her hands lingering on his shoulders for a moment longer before dropping to her sides. She turned back to the bag, her fingers trembling slightly as she picked it up. The weight of the night ahead pressed down on her, heavier than the bag itself.

  She glanced at Joshua, taking in the quiet determination etched into his features. “Let’s go,” she said, her voice steady now. “We don’t want to keep them waiting.”