Debris floated through the air, whirling in the wind like ash in a dying fire. Torn wrappers and fragments of old newsprint settled on the sidewalks, mingling with layers of dirt and grime that had long since hardened. These particles clung to every inch of the city, a suffocating film that seeped into the cracks of broken pavement and caked the cracked walls of buildings now reduced to skeletal ruins. Once, these structures had been the pride of the city, standing as symbols of human achievement. Now they were hollowed-out remnants, monuments to something lost and barely remembered.

Dusk was descending fast, painting the gray landscape with shades of indigo and deepening shadows. It was in this dim light that a young boy weaved through the thinning crowd, his slight figure barely distinguishable amid the others, each bent under the weight of their own survival. He couldn’t have been older than fifteen; his wiry frame suggested years of malnutrition and a life lived in the shadows, scavenging for scraps. His clothes were patched and frayed, little more than an assortment of fabrics stitched together in a pitiful attempt at warmth. Despite his frailty, he moved with a practiced stealth, slipping between strangers who barely glanced his way.

The boy looked like he was going to break at any moment.

The street, bustling and alive in the daylight hours, was beginning to empty as dusk drew nearer. People hurried to find shelter before nightfall, when the city's dangers multiplied. The sidewalks, littered with broken glass and metal shards, bore the signs of years of harsh foot traffic. People hadn’t owned private vehicles for decades—nobody could afford the luxury, and even the wealthiest among them couldn’t afford the fuel to power them. The only ones he had ever seen moved by night, and were protected by fierce soldiers.

It was a miracle that he had survived this long. Orphans rarely lived to see ten in the outskirts, where resources were scarce and protection was nearly non-existent. Water had become a prize as precious as gold, and real food was a rarity. The boy’s diet consisted mainly of nutrient pastes—a synthetic blend of whatever remnants were left after the inner districts had taken their fill. The little that trickled out to the fringes of society was barely enough to sustain anyone, let alone a child. Yet somehow, against all odds, he had lived.

And today, he knew, would be his last day.

But before that happened, he wanted one last taste of something he’d always dreamed about. He was going to have himself a bowl of popped corn.

The boy rounded a corner, his eyes locking onto a familiar sight—a storefront encased in armored plexiglass, illuminated by a flickering neon sign that cast a faint, sickly glow over the pavement. His heart quickened at the sight. This place, this small, guarded shop, had been his destination for as long as he could remember. He’d memorized the route to the marketplace, where this exotic treat was sold, and knew exactly which twists and turns to make to get there. It was a journey he had taken many times, sneaking through alleys and keeping to shadows, always afraid but always hopeful that he might catch a glimpse of someone enjoying the luxury he could only dream of.

This shop sat on the very edge of the marketplace, a district he rarely dared to enter during daylight. The marketplace was too close to the inner districts, too heavily patrolled by guards who wouldn’t hesitate to haul away a vagrant like him. But as night fell, the guards grew lax, and the risk of getting too close to this coveted storefront decreased. He had watched others come and go, people with enough money to buy the delicacies inside. He had smelled the faint, buttery scent through the cracks in the doorway, and sometimes he even imagined the taste—a salty, warm flavor that melted on his tongue. The mere thought made his mouth water.

Tonight, he had a plan. With the few coins he’d managed to scrape together—prized tokens he had hidden in the lining of his jacket—he could finally afford a taste. His fingers brushed against the rough fabric of his jacket, feeling the small lumps where the coins lay sewn in, safely tucked away from any wandering hands that might try to take them.

As he approached, he passed by the remnants of street vendors who had already closed up for the day. Stalls stood empty, abandoned under makeshift canopies, their wares hidden away until the safety of morning returned. The marketplace was eerily quiet now, save for the distant hum of neon signs and the faint sounds of music drifting from the inner districts. The boy’s pace quickened; he could feel a strange exhilaration bubbling within him. Tonight, he would have something to savor, something to hold onto as the last true joy of his short life.

The shop’s armored door loomed ahead. He could see the silhouettes of a few patrons inside—men and women huddled over tables, speaking in low tones as they nursed drinks and picked at small bowls of snacks. The warmth from inside beckoned him, and he took a shaky breath, feeling the chill of the evening seep into his bones. His hand reached out toward the door, trembling slightly as he felt the cool, solid surface beneath his fingers.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

He stepped inside, the faint smell of popcorn hitting him in a wave. His stomach twisted with hunger, and his eyes darted around the room, taking in every detail: the dim lights casting a golden glow over chipped tabletops, the scuffed floor that had seen countless feet. He felt like an outsider, his patched jacket and hollow cheeks marking him as someone who didn’t belong. Yet no one looked up at him, their attention focused inward, lost in their own small escapes from reality.

He approached the counter, eyes fixed on a small glass jar filled with fluffy, golden kernels. The sight was almost surreal, and for a moment he feared it was all a dream, that he would wake up back in the cold, empty alleyway where he’d spent so many nights. But no, it was real. And it was within reach.

The shopkeeper, a gruff man with tired eyes, glanced at him without much interest. “What’ll it be, kid?” he asked, his voice rough but not unkind.

The boy swallowed, his voice barely a whisper. “One… one bowl of popped corn, please.”

The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow, casting a skeptical look at the boy’s shabby clothes. But when the boy carefully extracted his coins and placed them on the counter, the man’s expression softened just a little. He gathered the coins with a practiced sweep of his hand and nodded, disappearing into the back for a moment before returning with a small, steaming bowl.

The boy stared at it, hardly able to believe his eyes. The bowl was warm in his hands, and the scent was intoxicating. He picked up a single piece, examining it as though it were a rare gem. Then, slowly, he brought it to his lips and bit down.

The taste exploded on his tongue—salty, buttery, warm. He closed his eyes, savoring the sensation, a single kernel a burst of flavor that made him feel, for a fleeting moment, like he belonged to the world inside this shop, not the one outside.

The boy’s fingers closed around the bowl of popcorn as though it were the most precious thing he had ever held. He felt the shopkeeper’s eyes on him as he left, perhaps out of curiosity or perhaps pity, but he didn’t look back. He pushed open the door and slipped into the night, clutching the bowl tightly to his chest. He pulled his jacket around him, shielding his treasure from view, and ducked his head low as he moved quickly down the street. Every shadow felt like a threat, and he instinctively shrank away from anyone who passed, afraid they might notice the bowl in his hands and decide to take it.

Once clear of the marketplace, he veered down a narrow alley and emerged into a small, neglected park. Its skeletal trees were barren, clawing at the sky, and a single rusty bench sat under one of the dim streetlamps that flickered overhead. The boy looked around, confirming that he was alone, and then sank down onto the bench. For a moment, he just stared at the bowl, the warm kernels glowing faintly in the weak light, and then he picked up a single piece.

As he bit down, the same salty, buttery taste filled his mouth, and he closed his eyes, savoring the sensation. He popped another kernel, then another, letting each one linger on his tongue as he tried to ignore the gnawing hunger in his belly. But soon, he noticed a troubling sensation—the kernels were vanishing too quickly. The bowl, which had looked so full and promising, was shrinking by the second. Despite how slowly he tried to eat, he could feel it emptying with each handful. He tried to tell himself he didn’t need more, that it was the taste that mattered, but the taste alone couldn’t silence the ache in his stomach.

The disappointment settled over him like a heavy weight. He had spent everything on this one meal, his entire life’s savings of scavenged coins, for something he had dreamed of for years. He’d imagined it would be rich, satisfying, enough to make him feel full at last. But the popcorn wasn’t filling at all; the kernels were too light, the salt too fleeting. The familiar hollowness in his stomach crept back in, refusing to be silenced.

He looked down at the bowl, which now held only a few inedible scraps, and a wave of sadness washed over him. This was supposed to be his last meal, the one final luxury he’d saved up for, and yet it hadn’t filled him the way he’d hoped. Even now, with this last taste on his tongue, he was still hungry.

The thought echoed in his mind: hungry again, even on my last day. He felt the loneliness of that thought, the realization that he would never know what it was to be truly full, truly at peace. He stared at the empty bowl, clutching it tightly, feeling as though it might slip away at any moment.

But really, it didn’t matter—not now. By tomorrow, none of this would matter.

A grief filled exhale exited his mouth.

"Well... that’s that." a soft sorrow whisper left the orphan. He walked over to a nearby trash can, and gently placed the small container on top of the pile of overflowing garbage.

The boy stood there a moment longer, watching the little bowl he’d set on top of the trash heap. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to toss it aside carelessly. It was funny, he thought, that now, on his last day, he suddenly felt compelled to leave things just a little better than he’d found them. He chuckled softly to himself, a faint, empty sound that drifted into the night air.

“Why do I care about the trash?” he muttered. Yesterday, he hadn’t given it a second thought. Yesterday, like every other day, he’d just been surviving, scavenging whatever he could find, barely stopping to breathe. But today… tomorrow didn’t matter. It felt like the weight of his whole life was pressing down on him, heavier than it had ever been. “Only one more thing to do now…”