Brent Gordon’s fingers tremble as he holds the paper cup between them, the metal clinking of spare coins from indifferent passersby barely registering in his awareness anymore. The city churns around him, an incessant hum of engines, footsteps, and distant sirens. Sixty years of life, now distilled to this: a gray figure slumped on the pavement, waiting for what the world might toss his way, if anything.
He watches feet shuffle by. Expensive leather, worn-down sneakers, stilettos that tap out a rhythm he can no longer follow. His sign, written with a marker borrowed from a tired clerk weeks ago, hangs crookedly around his neck. Spare change? Anything helps. But the streets of this city, brutal in their indifference, have little left to give.
That is, until they stop.
Two women—one young, one older—stand in front of him, their presence breaking through the fog that has enveloped Brent’s senses. He blinks and squints, the sun casting a harsh glow behind their figures. One woman, slender, probably in her thirties, with dark hair that catches the light in jagged waves. The other, older, but not elderly, her presence more solid, her lined face unreadable. They do not move.
The younger one, her voice lilting in a language Brent does not immediately place, speaks first. Her words dance with the harsh edges of German, though he can’t understand them. But her tone is neither cruel nor dismissive. It holds something foreign to him now—care.
“We have no money to give you,” Mae says again, though Brent only recognizes the sounds much later. “But if you’re hungry, my mother is a decent cook.”
Before Brent can even try to respond, the older woman’s voice joins, softer but firm, the syllables rich with the cadence of French. She gazes at him with eyes that seem to pierce through the skin of his present misfortune. “She exaggerates,” Joan says. “I cook well enough to keep us alive, but you are welcome to dine with us.”
Brent stares up at them, processing the offer through layers of confusion and hunger. No one speaks English. No one should speak to him at all. Yet here they are, standing in front of him as though the world had not turned him invisible months ago.
He opens his mouth to speak, but his words are trapped somewhere deep, far beyond the reach of his parched throat. He glances down at his hand, cradling the cup, his lifeline, as if letting go would sever the last tether holding him to the city.
The younger woman holds out her hand. She waits, her arm outstretched for what seems like an eternity, unbothered by the scornful glances of passing strangers. Her fingers are thin, delicate, yet they seem to have more strength than his entire body could muster.
Brent’s own hand rises before his mind fully commits. His fingers brush hers, and she grips them lightly, pulling him to his feet. The world wavers as he stands, his legs weak from weeks of disuse. He stumbles but remains upright. It is as if they are tethered to something he cannot name.
They begin to walk. Slowly at first, through the crowded sidewalk and then into streets Brent never knew existed. He’s lived in this city for over twenty years, but it’s as if they’ve unlocked a hidden map he was never privy to. They move in strange, zigzagging patterns, doubling back, taking alleys Brent would have dismissed as dead-ends or spaces of no consequence. The rhythm is disorienting, almost dreamlike.
There’s a sense of being led somewhere that’s not part of the city Brent once knew. This place feels forgotten, a backwater of time, where glass towers and buzzing lights fade into cracked brick and iron fences overtaken by vines. No one seems to notice them. The women talk quietly to each other in their own languages, and occasionally Mae glances back at Brent, her eyes sharp, as if checking to make sure he’s still following. The older woman remains silent, her face closed.
Finally, they reach it.
A structure—not quite a home, but something that holds shelter. A shanty, precariously built near the city reservoir, where the water laps at its edges in dark, brackish waves. It is a place of contradictions: makeshift walls patched with materials Brent can’t identify, windows that are merely holes in the wood, but inside there is light—warm, flickering. It feels lived in, but also like it exists outside of time, as if it has always been here, hidden just beyond sight.
“Come in,” Mae says, her German once again breaking the air between them. She motions toward the door, and Brent hesitates before stepping inside.
The air is thick with the scent of something cooking, though not pleasant—more like the smell of sustenance, of things boiled until soft. Joan moves to the pot simmering on a rusty stove, stirring it with a large wooden spoon. Brent notices her movements are deliberate, steady. The steam rises from the pot in curling tendrils, like smoke signals to a part of him that has been dead for a long time.
He sits at the table, a rough slab of wood supported by mismatched legs. It wobbles when he rests his elbows on it, and he quickly withdraws, feeling out of place. Mae watches him from the corner, her arms crossed, her dark eyes unreadable.
The food arrives, ladled out into chipped bowls. It’s unrecognizable—something between a stew and porridge, thick and gray. Joan sets it before him with a nod, not offering words but a look that says everything. Eat, or don’t. It’s up to you now.
Brent lifts the spoon to his mouth, hesitating as the smell invades his senses. He eats, slowly at first, the warmth surprising him. The taste is strange, metallic almost, but his hunger overrides any hesitation. He eats, and they watch him.
As he swallows, the edges of his vision blur, just for a moment. He pauses, the spoon halfway to his lips, wondering if he’s imagining things. But no—the blurring intensifies. His body feels heavy, yet light at the same time, a weightlessness pulling at him from deep within. He puts the spoon down.
Mae speaks again, this time her words clear though he doesn’t understand them. There is a rhythm in her voice, an old chant, a melody that seems to hum in the very air around him. Joan’s voice joins hers, soft but deliberate, each word measured and weighted.
Brent tries to speak, but his tongue feels thick, his throat dry. His heart beats in his chest with increasing speed, a drum pounding louder than anything he’s felt in months.
The women’s voices intertwine, flowing like the reservoir’s dark water outside, pulling him deeper into their current. The city seems to dissolve around him, the streets, the noise, even the light itself fading. All that remains is the sound of their voices, the faint taste of metal on his tongue, and a deep, inescapable hunger clawing its way up from his stomach.
He tries to stand, but his legs won’t listen. Mae and Joan watch him as he struggles, their faces calm, impassive. The room grows darker, the walls seeming to stretch, to warp. Brent blinks rapidly, trying to focus, but the harder he tries, the more everything unravels.
In the silence between their words, Brent realizes something. This was never about the meal. This was about something much deeper, something hidden in the twisted paths they’d taken to reach this place. The hunger was never his alone.
When the darkness fully claims him, there is no ending, no resolution, only the sound of their voices, now a part of him forever.
The city continues to move outside. It does not notice Brent Gordon is gone. It never noticed him at all.
MADD FICTIONAL 