? The Violin Girl ?
A soft shuffling broke the stillness.
Then, a figure crouched beside him.
With hands steady and small, she unscrewed the cap of a battered canteen.
Then, gently, as though lifting a wounded bird, she raised Alex’s head, just slightly, and tilted the rim to his lips.
One slow pour. Cool water kissed his mouth. Not too much. Just enough.
His eyelids fluttered. His body stirred.
Then her hand, calloused, careful, brushed a damp curl of hair from his brow. It lingered there, then settled on his shoulder. Not rough. Not urgent. Just firm enough to say wake up, without ever speaking the words.
Alex's lashes trembled against the dim, half-lit street.
And there she was.
Watched him, quietly, as if waiting for the moment he’d return to his own body.
In one pale hand she held out a piece of bread.
Across from him sat a girl, not much older than he was, perhaps his age exactly. Blonde, with blue eyes sharp as frost, she perched on the edge of a low bench. Her posture was flawless — one leg crossed neatly over the other, back straight, hands still.
Her violin rested against her shoulder like a rifle ready for war.
She wore no ornament. Her clothes were plain, but clean.
And somehow it made her much more elegant.
Pressed. There was something unnatural in her stillness, something that made the air around her feel colder than before.
Alex blinked, dazed by the strange image before him. He opened his mouth, cracked lips, hoarse throat.
"Thank... you"
He grabbed the water first and drank, greedily, like a dying man, swallowing every drop as though it were his last as she watched him.
When he paused, breath ragged, she said,
“Your friend earlier left you a piece of bread.”
Alex turned his head slightly. A crust lay beside him in the dirt. Stale, forgotten. Dante’s.
He stared at it.
“It’s stolen... Or bought with money that is.”
“I see. Your parents raised you well.”
That broke something in him.
“…I miss them,” he said, voice cracking.
“What is wrong… with the people here?”
His voice was broken now. “Why are they rejecting me? All I wanted was work.”
“Have faith. Not everyone here is bad." she answered, "You will find a job.”
“I’ve been looking for three days…”
He shook his head slowly.
The thoughts kept piling, pressing heavy on his chest. He could almost smell the bread his mother baked in the mornings, hear his father’s boots on the wooden floor, feel the warmth of the hearth he’d left behind. Every memory tugged harder, a weight of longing that made the walls around him feel foreign, suffocating. It was the ache of distance—the kind that gnawed worse the longer it lasted.
“The world is not against you,” she said, tilting her head just slightly. “Consider this… an instruction, not insult,”
Alex barely whispered, confused. “What?”
“This.” She nodded at him.
“No food for three days. Now you know how valuable food is.”
“No job for three days. Maybe your approach is wrong.”
“Don’t hate the… um…” She paused, blue eyes glinting with mischief. “The bumblers who refused you. Maybe you’re… overqualified.”
“That… that’s not funny,” he said, voice hoarse.
“I know.” She shrugged, as if it meant nothing. “I once went hungry for a week. I understand.”
Alex’s eyes widened. Three days felt unbearable. A week? And she spoke of it casually, like a fact.
“I believe,” she said, precise as a metronome, “that kindness and honesty aren't sufficient here to survive.”
The sentence hit. Alex swallowed, looking down.
"So... should I just... let go?"
A moment passed as the girl studied his eyes, like something is slipping out.
"No." she said. "They are not sufficient. It doesn't mean you must cast them away. It doesn't mean they are worthless. They may turn out to be the one thing that make you special here."
Alex lowered his head, unconvinced, lips pressed to each other.
"I'm... not sure about that. What if I don’t find one and go... hungry again?” he asked, voice trembling.
She leaned forward slightly, almost conspiratorial. “Then I’ll be here again. Next time… dessert, not bread."
Alex swallowed, barely believing it.
The words hung in the air like a promise.
A rough boot slammed beside them. The crust of bread crushed with a wet squelch. A man muttered, “City’s full of rats and strays,” before spitting and moving on.
Alex barely noticed, completely lost in her gaze and way of speaking.
Noor didn’t even turn her head.
Her voice returned, undisturbed.
"If not me, someone else."
"If no one comes..."
“Then step forward. Hands empty, eyes open, heart steady and head held high.”
Alex froze. His chest tightened.
The words spun in his mind, simple yet impossible. A puzzle he couldn’t solve. He felt the weight of them… as if she were speaking not to him, but through him.
Somehow… it unsettled him.
Noor’s gaze fixed on him, calm and unshakable.
“Go get them.”
The faintest smile touched her lips as she rested her chin on her hand.
“Am I right?”
Her words lingered like mist. No encouragement. No optimism. Only certainty.
To Alex, it didn’t feel like comfort. It felt older—like something carved into stone, echoing steady as a heartbeat.
He couldn’t look away. Not for a breath.
At last she stood, brushed her skirt smooth, adjusted the violin at her shoulder. “I apologize for talking too much,” she said lightly, as if none of it had happened. “I’ll be taking my leave.”
Graceful steps carried her away.
“I’m Noor,” she added over her shoulder. “If you ever need me, look near the plaza fountain. I play there.”
Then the girl walked on. “Good luck, friend.”
Alex sat in silence. He ate what was left. Drank what was left. The bread, the water steadied him. Her words—those strange, sharp words—echoed louder still.
He wiped his mouth, stood, and felt a flicker of resolve.
The city lived outside.
So did he.
And yet, to cast aside her voice felt impossible. As if he’d be turning his back on a verdict already given. The weight of it pressed not like suggestion, but decree—disobedience would feel less like choice than betrayal. To ignore her would be to disappoint a queen, to deny what was plainly before him.
Alex reached into his pocket and found the charm—his father’s parting gift. The boy clutched it tight, and stepped onto a new street.
Minutes later, after walking in the middle class streets, not too far from the Plaza, Alex stopped.
Tucked between two sagging structures was a tiny shop, its paint faded, its windows streaked with grime. Outside, an old man—stooped, bearded, and gruff-looking—was struggling to unload crates from a battered cart. His back hunched with effort, and his breath came short and irritable.
Alex hesitated, then stepped forward.
“Need a hand, sir?”
The old man didn’t look up.
“Get lost. Don’t need no pickpockets sniffin’ around.”
Like half of the answers the boy got all these three days. Nothing magical happened... But Alex didn’t retreat this time. He decided to be bold, stepping closer, bending over the nearest crate, and with a wince and a grunt, lifting it.
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“Hey—!” the man barked. “I said—!”
Alex, without meeting his eye, carried the crate inside, careful not to scrape it. Then returned, and lifted another.
The old man scowled and looked at the boy, then at the many crates still left.
“Tch... Fine. Hurry up, then. But just the crates and then you leave.”
Alex beamed—the first real smile to cross his face since arriving in the city—and nodded.
“Yes, sir!”
The old man entered the shop, watching the boy work, making sure he doesn't get his hands on some apple, some lemon, anything and sneaks it into his pocket... when the doorbell chimed.
A pleasant-looking woman entered, dressed neatly, with kind eyes and a purse tucked under her arm.
She halted at the sight of Alex who rushed to the counter. A pretty, innocent looking face, pale, but hopeful and smiling.
“Oh—hello there,” she said, surprised.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Alex replied warmly. “Welcome. How can I help you?”
She raised a brow, amused by his formal tone.
From the corner, the old man thought to himself, “Damn brat… he didn’t even finish unloadin’ the—”
But he stopped short.
The crates were all inside. Stacked. Aligned. Not a splinter out of place.
"crates..."
The woman smiled.
“Well, aren’t you charming, little boy? Do you have any of that sweet cinnamon soap?”
Alex turned politely to the old man.
“Excuse me, sir. How much for the cinnamon soap?”
The old man blinked at him, still slightly caught off guard. “…Four coins,” he mumbled, shuffling toward the shelf.
“Four coins, ma’am.” Alex mirrored the words to the lady.
“Perfect,” she replied, digging through her purse. “I’ll take two.”
Alex went to the shelf, where the old man pointed, took two and bagged both gently and handed it over with both hands.
“That would be eight coins, ma’am.”
She accepted it and gave him a warm smile.
“You’re quite the young gentleman. I hope to see you again.”
“I hope so too,” Alex said simply with a slight bow.
The door closed behind her with a pleasant chime. The old man stared at the boy. Still frowning, but with something unfamiliar behind the frown—a flicker of thought, or perhaps… approval.
Alex left the counter and walked to the old man quietly.
“If it’s alright,” he said, voice soft, “could I keep helping—just for today? I don’t ask for much. Anything you think is fair.”
The old man scratched his beard. His gaze lingered on Alex, steady, searching and analyzing.
"Quick. Knows how to count. Charming tone."
Then he grunted.
“Hmph. Fine.”
Alex's eyes brightened.
“Thank you, sir. Really… Thank you.”
The lamps glowed low and amber. The work was done.
Alex sat on a crate, breathing softly, eyelids heavy but heart light. His limbs ached, but it was an ache earned cleanly. Behind the counter, the old man counted the coins of the day, one by one.
Not a piece missing.
“Everything fits, nothing is missing. He didn't steal.”
He looked at Alex again.
“You’re not from here,”
“No, sir,” Alex replied, quieter now.
“Ain’t just your looks. It’s how you talk. Too clean. Too soft. Too… hopeful.”
Alex gave a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I just moved here,” he said. “Trying to get by. Looking for honest work. But if today’s all you’ve got, I understand.”
The old man didn’t answer.
Instead, he reached under the counter and withdrew a small pouch. He dropped in more coins than expected, then tossed it across the counter.
“Don’t be late tomorrow.”
It was a simple sentence. Very simple... But after the longest three days of his life, the hunger, the thirst, the cursing he took for three days felt lighter hearing the words. The boy's eyes glowed. His heart skipped a beat.
“And don’t call me ‘sir’. Name’s Mr. Harris. Customers walk in, you call me boss. Got it?”
Alex stared at the pouch in his hands.
It felt heavier than it should have.
His fingers closed around it, trembling slightly.
“Yes, boss…” he whispered.
A couple of tears slipped down his cheeks, uninvited and silent.
He wiped them quickly.
But more followed…
Mr. Harris saw it. His scowl twitched, unsure whether to deepen or soften. He said nothing. He turned away and began sweeping the floor in slow, deliberate strokes.
“Damn soft kid…” To no one in particular.
The door of Dante's room in Dominick's apartment burst open with a crash, jolting Dante from his sprawl across the couch. A crust of half-eaten bread slipped from his hand, landing unceremoniously upon the floor.
“Good God!” he barked, his booted feet swinging down. “What’s happened?”
Alex stood in the doorway, panting, flushed with wind and elation. His chest rose and fell with breathless joy, and in his eyes danced a light that had not been there for many days.
“I did it,” he said, laughing—half in disbelief, half in wonder. “Dante—I did it !”
“Did what?”
“I found work.” His voice broke as he spoke the words, and he laughed again, but there were tears too, catching in his throat. “I found work!”
He tossed a pouch onto the table between them.
It landed with a weighty clink.
The coins inside jostled and settled like proof of some dream long doubted.
Dante whistled, low and impressed.
“That’s a heavy pouch, buddy. Sold your kidney? Or your pride?”
“No.” Alex wiped his face, overwhelmed, still smiling. “It’s a shop. Run by an old man. Mr. Harris. He gave me a chance.”
“Well,” Dante said, sitting up straighter, his grin curling wide, “I’ll be damned. You really did it, shepherd.”
“I can do it,” Alex said softly, the words forming as though he scarcely dared to believe them. “I can survive here.”
Dante caught the look in his friend’s eyes—a kind of trembling hope, fragile as wet paper.
He reached over and clapped him on the shoulder with familiar roughness.
“Good for you,” he said. “Give ’em hell.”
Alex’s smile remained, gentler now. He untied the pouch and loosened the drawstrings.
“We can split it,” he said.
Dante frowned. “What?”
“The money,” Alex said simply. “You helped me when I had nothing. So… we split it.”
Dante laughed, loud and sharp.
“You’ve still got a long road ahead of you, farm boy. Keep it. You’ll need it more than I will.” He jerked a thumb toward himself.
“And leave the dirty work to me.”
Alex didn’t laugh with him. He only looked at him—a look filled with something quiet and sorrowful, something that reached deeper than either of them could name.
“As you like,” he said.
Dante watched him, brow furrowed, uncertain why he suddenly felt… hollow.
Next morning came.
Dante walked alone through the waking streets, chewing a tough crust of bread, his hands deep in his coat pockets. The city was beginning to stir; the sky had shaken off the dull blue of dawn, and the sunlight spilled like gold dust across the cobbles.
He paused by a shuttered stall. The iron hinges still slept, but the air was warming. He thought of Alex’s face the night before—flushed with joy, eyes alight, alive with impossible hope.
Dante smirked faintly and shook his head. “He really pulled it off. Got himself a job. Full of hope, that one.” He chewed slowly.
“I’m happy for him.”
Then his gaze drifted. There, just ahead, a stout merchant woman counted coins into a purse, her satchel slipping precariously from her shoulder.
Dante’s eyes narrowed. The corners of his mouth lifted with habit. “Easy…”
He started walking towards his prey.
He timed his breath.
Adjusted his stride.
Let the moment settle.
Then… nothing.
He passed her cleanly. Without reaching.
“Hm?”
He stopped. Turned.
“Why… didn’t I do it?”
His hands twitched slightly in his pockets. His jaw clenched.
“Maybe I just spaced out.”
He walked another block. A new opportunity presented itself—too perfect to pass.
A portly man, loud with complaint, gestured wildly at a bread vendor.
His coin purse hung from his belt like a ripe plum.
Dante exhaled.
Focused.
Fingers ready.
He passed the man.
Still nothing.
He stopped again, mouth open slightly in disbelief.
“What the hell? Why won’t my hands move?”
Then it hit him. The images he didn't forget since yesterday.
Alex’s face, thin and pale, eyes bright with defiance.
Alex clutching the pouch, tears slipping down his face.
“So what?!” Dante muttered harshly.
“So what if he resisted? He doesn’t know this place! He could lose that job today!”
His voice cracked in his throat, as though arguing with something inside him.
“This is how you survive!"
"This is how things work here!"
"Come on—”
He walked again, faster now, as though trying to outrun the thoughts. And then—
An old woman approached. Slow of foot, bent with age, a basket of herbs in one hand and a dangling wallet at her waist. She didn’t see him at all.
Dante slowed.
This was it.
His breath grew quiet.
The alley was empty.
No one would see.
He raised his hand this time.
He reaches…
Gets closer…
and closer…
And grabs her sleeve.
The woman turned, startled. Her eyes met his.
“W–Who are you?” she asked, voice faint.
Dante’s voice emerged, cold and automatic. “Your wallet, madam. Tuck it in. It could fall.”
The old woman's eyes softened. “Oh, bless you, young man. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
She smiled gently, the kind of smile that felt like something from another life. “So many pickpockets lately,” she said as she adjusted her belt. “My son… had his wallet taken just four or three days ago. Right on this street. It had money for my medicine..."
Dante stood silent, mind spinning.
She nodded to him once, smiling, and continued on her way, her basket swinging.
Dante did not move.
He stood there, arms limp at his sides, unable to understand what he had just done.
Or why.
Thank you for reading :)
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