Munch. Munch.
The scent of flour and ash lingered in the air, curling around the small room like smoke from a dying fire. It clung to his clothes, his skin, his breath. Arcose sat stiffly at the wooden table, a bowl of porridge in front of him. It was warm—uncomfortably so. Or maybe it wasn't the food. Maybe it was the feeling of being here, surrounded by people eating quietly, like a family.
Only, they weren't a family. Not his.
Across the table sat the old man, silent and stoic, chewing methodically. Next to him, Vivian hummed to herself between bites, legs swinging beneath the chair, her purple hair catching the morning light like spilled ink.
Arcose looked down. He wasn't used to eating with others. He wasn't used to warmth, or kindness, or second chances.
He wasn't used to being seen.
Earlier that Morning
After their brief talk by the window, Arcose had tried to leave.
"I suppose I should go," he'd said, voice soft and uncertain. "I've caused enough trouble."
But what he really meant was: This was too good. Too kind. And things like this don't last for boys like me.
He turned to leave, already bracing himself for the cold and the hunger that waited outside. But before he could take another step, Vivian's voice caught him.
"Haloa is coming soon," she said. "You should stay. At least until then. I'm sure Grandpa will want that too."
Her words hit him harder than he expected. Haloa… a festival he'd only ever watched from alley shadows, too filthy and hungry to dream of celebrating it himself.
Joy flickered in him—brief, naive—but quickly faded. He knew better. Her grandfather wouldn't allow it. He'd already been given more than a slum rat like him deserved. A bed. Soup. A place to not die.
"I'll go ask him!" Vivian shouted, not waiting for him to speak. She darted out of the room like a spark on dry wood.
Arcose followed hesitantly. Not out of hope. Hope was a cruel thing in the slums. He followed out of something quieter. Something like longing.
The old man was in the yard, tending to a bonsai tree. It was small and gnarled, its tiny branches delicate and twisted like the fingers of an old sorcerer. Arcose stared. A man like that, with hands built for war, was treating the tree like it was sacred.
"Grandpa! Grandpa!"
"I'm listening," the man replied without turning.
Vivian pressed forward. "Can Arcose stay with us until Haloa? Please? Please? It's always just us—and it's lonely. It would be nice to have someone else to celebrate with. Right, Arcose?"
Arcose didn't answer. He didn't know what to say.
The old man finally turned, his eyes meeting Arcose's. There was no softness in them—only scrutiny. As if he were peering straight into Arcose's soul, weighing the shape of his scars.
Then he spoke. "Are you comfortable staying with us for a few days, Arcose?"
Arcose hesitated. "I… I wouldn't want to trouble you."
"No. You wouldn't," the man said plainly. Then he turned to Vivian. "And perhaps it has been a bit lonely, hasn't it, Vivi?"
Vivian beamed, her smile like sunrise through soot.
Now
Back at the table, Arcose stared at his half-eaten porridge. The food was plain. The air was thick with warmth and the hiss of something cooking over fire. It should have been ordinary.
But to him, it was a strange kind of magic.
He glanced up, and for a moment, Vivian caught him looking. She smiled again. A small, soft thing. He looked away quickly.
Something in his chest tightened.
In the slums, kindness was a knife in the dark. You never trusted it. You never believed it. But here, he wasn't sure anymore.
He didn't know if he wanted to believe it.