Like most nights he desperately seeked a gaze to affix upon him, to garner the interest of one of the vast presences in the skies.

He pushed his limits with the corrupting whispers who promised understanding, secrets, love.

Everything under the sun.

But he did not seek something under the sun. He seeked what the whispers never offered, nor dared mention.

His nose bled openly as he stubbornly held on. Oscar’s vision swam as his life essence escaped him.

Yet his stubborn willpower bared no fruit, no presence bothered to deign him with their focus.

Slowly he fell to his knees, the shell clattering as it fell from his hand and clattered away.

With a muffled sob, he rested his forehead against the wooden wall underneath the window. His body twitched in impotent exasperation. A hollow despair enveloped him as the void in him grew larger.

He slid down from the wall slumping down on the floor with an empty gaze, staring slightly to the side, like a marionette with its strings cut.

The uncomfortable positions strain on his body reminded him of his existence. A comfort in his state of distress. The comforting dull agony and the cold floor brought him solace.

After a moment of respite, he crawled to his new bed where he shivered from a cold that did not abate despite the warmth the bed brought.

He had been hopeful, emboldened with this new beginning, his façade flowing over to his true self.

Yet the hope had made the rejection even more painful.

Existential crisis weighed on him as he had trouble breathing. Imagination showing him visions he dreaded to think during the day. But during the god-forsaken hours they crashed into him without mercy.

He was no longer in control of his mental faculties as they worked against him, stripping him vision by vision of stability.

Sleep came many hours later and it was restless.

Wretched was the existence of those who have forsaken themselves.

Oscar woke to the sound of bells and light. Another day. Once again.

He mindlessly rose and began slowly stretching before doing push-ups, followed by sit-ups. His regime of the morning ingrained to him since young. It was of no reason to improve oneself or keep in shape. Just a thing he did.

The new place of residence was still foreign to him. It smelled slightly of overripe cherries this morning. Something he did not notice yesterday.

He went over to the small window and sat down in the sunlight, letting it wash over him as he meditated in quiet prayer. He did not enjoy being in the light, it did not fit him to stay in the light. It was warm, comforting. Things he felt undeserving.

But it was a necessity to recreate his outer shell he showed to others. Warm and comforting like the sun. Without this ritual, he felt his façade hollow.

With a smile, he stood up and left his new home and headed down.

He found Theodore in the lounge reading a newspaper.

“Good morning” Oscar greeted him as he entered.

He regarded Oscar with a nod and motioned him toward the dining room.

Oscar smiled and nodded back and headed on and entered the next room, where Isabel just entered from the kitchen.

She smiled at him “Sit down I’ll bring you breakfast.” She said as she returned to the kitchen.

Moments later Oscar was sitting at the table with a piece of buttered toast and couple of fried eggs with some leftover stew from yesterday next to it.

“Had trouble sleeping?” The matron asked as she finished bringing the breakfast.

Stolen story; please report.

“Ah, yes. Probably due to the unfamiliar place.” Oscar nodded gingerly.

The matron nodded, “We usually break the nightly fast around seven in the morning, “ And smirked before adding “ Next time you’ll get to search your own breakfast after the noon bells. This is an exception.”

“I’m so sorry about this, you shouldn’t have bothered!” Oscar hastily said as he scampered up from the table, “I didn't think that-“

“I’ll go-“ He started before the matron shushed him and sat him down again.

“Eat.” She said, “It’s fine, I understand this time. Just don’t make it a habit.”

Oscar awkwardly nodded to Isabel before hesitantly digging in, earning him a snort from the matron who left him and returned to the kitchen while a slight good-natured snicker was heard from the lounge along with flipping of the newspaper.

After an awkward breakfast, Oscar crawled towards the kitchen with his dishes held as an offering and armor. He stopped in the doorway and watched Isabel working calmly on pickling some vegetables.

She noticed his presence and he winced as she turned to him and smiled awkwardly at her.

“Ah.” She simply said and grabbed the dishes before Oscar could react and quickly began to wash them.

Oscar cleared his throat before starting.

“Matron, do you happen to have any tasks for me to do around the house?”

“No, not at the house, but the gentleman should go to the market to buy some things.” She said with a side glance towards Oscar.

“Of course, what I should buy for you?” He asked, perking up with the chance to amend his mistake.

“Oh, spare clothes, household items.” She hummed in thought as she finished the few dishes before turning towards Oscar, “For yourself that is.” She smiled, “We are good for now and you just moved in. With no luggage as well. We’ll talk about your chores in the evening.”

Soon Oscar was chased out of the house with directions to the market and a house key in his pocket.

With hastened steps he moved erratically into an alley between shacks, onto another street and into another alley, repeating with the sea of dilapidated housing and crowded streets blurring till he came to a dead end.

Sweating and wheezing he put one of the corners against his back and slumped down, grasping his head.

He had made a mistake.

He cursed in league sprahe quietly as he swore at his sleep-addled head for not noticing the time.

Slowly swaying back and forth, bumping against the corner in the shady alley he slowly gathered himself, rebuilding his confidence and stature.

With an amused hum, Oscar glanced out of the alley onto the street. He slowly rolled tobacco into a cigarette with his still shaking hands and lit up a cigarette and deeply inhaled, letting his mind drift into a hazy calm from the smoke.

He leaned against the side of the alley as he watched the pedestrians moving by, looking like he felt. Hollow.

A few glanced over to him to whom he gave a friendly smile, eliciting them to move on.

He prayed his panicking rush did not etch upon someone’s memory.

He closed his eyes and let the noon sun calm him once again. He hummed a nursery rhyme quietly as he felt the anxiety lessen.

Slowly he walked out of the alley and joined the traffic, following the direction most went. Towards the city proper.

Slowly the destitution turned to houses made of finer materials decreeing stability and permanence, that could be attributed to the lifespan of the populace. Where the shacks were, short-lived hasty constructions easily built and replaced with new the streets now filled with venerable stone and treated wood told a different tale.

There was a certain air of planning unfound in the poorer districts. Here the tenants and architects planned beyond their next meal and the following week. Buildings that would span generations if allowed.

Oscar’s travel ended at the edge between these two districts of opposites. A minor market square with shops surrounding the stall-filled space in the middle. There had been minor market stall-riddled trading squares on his way among the district he came from, but the focus of the goods had been different.

Those focused on necessities and basic goods like bundles of undyed fabric and firewood and coal. Here Oscar could see some almost luxury goods among the stalls. Simple crafted items, clothes, and larger selection of produce, while the shop's displaced items of quality and variance beyond simple goods.

Books, shoes, fine bakeries and spices. A tailor shop and apothecary.

And just like there was an abundance of goods so were there people.

The square was teeming with them.

Oscar ignored the shops and joined the flow of marketgoers as he walked the stalls.

It took him a while, but he eventually walked out of the market with a simple grey shirt he found among the stalls and worn boots from a stall that sold used clothing, and lastly, he was now wearing a flat cap. He also bought some candles, soap, and a journal with an ink pen that he bought from a general store.

He carried the extras packed in paper as he began his trek back.

His wallet felt empty after shopping, he had spent 5 Lindhols and 12 pence for it all and he had greatly saved on buying the used boots. Nevertheless, he had 2 Linhhols and 8 pence remaining from his savings and was in desperate need for work.

He had considered buying a second pair of trousers and a vest but felt it be extravagant to be justified and rather bought some necessities instead.

He headed forth, traveling back towards his new home in the city.

It was an uneventful journey; he merely observed the world around him while he hummed. Despite the doom and gloom the district was alive. Children playing on the muddy streets, laughing and enjoying themselves. Groups of wives gathering and chatting, watching over the little ones. Homecomings and goings.

Many of the wearier pedestrians, suffering from the lack of vigor continued with less heavy faces and eyes less hollow as they saw the small sparks in the dark during their travel.

Oscar couldn’t help but smile, in earnest, as he passed an energetic bunch of children rushing around with a ball made from rags on the side of the street.

It was late afternoon when he arrived home, using his key for the first time. Taking his things upstairs he unpacked them quickly and used his notebook to note down his expenses for today.

His handwriting was cursive and detailed, one befitting a scribe.

20 pence for the shirt.

3 Lindhols and 15 pence for the boots, they did not fully fit him, being slightly larger than necessary but a pair of boots fitted for him would cost crowns instead of Lindhols.

10 pence for the cap.

3 pence for candles.

4 pence for a bar of soap

10 pence for the journal and the pen and ink. He had considered just using charcoal as a writing implement but was too used to pen and ink to switch.

A total of 5 Lindhols and 12 pence.

Below the total he marked his remaining funds, 2 L 8p.

Oscar sighed and leaned back. Money disappeared easier than it appeared. He rose, leaving the ink to dry as he took the paper wrappings and string that his purchases had been packed in and neatly gathered them.

He stored the string in one of the writing tables' drawers before folding the paper till he had a sturdy pocket. He took one of the two remaining silver coins from his pouch and slipped it into the folds before placing it in the drawer as well.

His legs took him over to the window as he took out his medallion.

He opened it and stilled as there was no seashell in it.