The harsh reality of his new world hit him in waves. The narrow, winding alleys stretched before him, flanked by decrepit shacks and crumbling huts. Each building looked as though it could collapse with the next gust of wind, patched together with rotting planks and rusted sheets of metal. Ragged bits of fabric hung in windows, torn and threadbare, attempting to keep out the biting cold but offering little more than the illusion of warmth.

The people around him wore clothes that seemed stitched together from whatever scraps they could find—faded, torn garments that barely shielded them from the elements. Their faces were gaunt, eyes hollowed by hunger and fatigue. Children with sallow cheeks and bare feet darted between the shacks, their playful shouts weakened by malnourishment, their clothes little more than rags that hung off their thin frames. Women with sunken eyes clutched bundles of firewood or battered tin cups, waiting in lines that stretched through the alleys, hoping for handouts from the rare food vendors.

The air itself seemed heavy, a mix of wood smoke and the sour scent of decay, and it clung to him as he made his way deeper into the heart of the slum. Fires burned low in the distance, their weak, flickering light casting shadows over hollow faces that gathered around them. Some huddled in silence, conserving what little warmth the fire offered, while others whispered to one another, voices low and anxious, as though any louder might draw attention or bad luck.

A few yards ahead, an old man lay curled up against the wall of a shack, his clothes so threadbare they were almost indistinguishable from the mud beneath him. His face was a mask of exhaustion, eyes closed as if he’d given up on the world. Beside him, a young mother clutched a bundle wrapped tightly in a tattered shawl, rocking back and forth as she whispered a lullaby, her voice cracked and brittle, like the world around her.

The sounds of coughing and murmurs filled the air, punctuated by the occasional clink of tin cups as villagers held them out, hoping for a few coins. A vendor stood at a crooked stall nearby, his stock a sad collection of stale bread and wilted vegetables, each piece carrying a price far beyond the reach of most who gathered around him. Hands reached out eagerly, desperate for a single bite, but few could afford even that, and many walked away empty-handed, heads bowed in despair.

He moved forward, the soles of his shoes scraping against the uneven ground, feeling the weight of eyes that followed him. Each face seemed to carry the same look—one of resigned hunger, of lives beaten down by the weight of poverty and abandonment. The world he’d found himself in was one stripped of hope, its people clinging to existence with what little strength they had left.

Finally, he arrived at his own shack, indistinguishable from the others save for a few personal belongings scattered inside. The walls were patched with scraps of metal and splintered wood, each piece haphazardly nailed to the frame. A chill seeped through every crack and gap, and a damp smell filled the air, as though the shack itself was slowly rotting from within. Inside, a thin mattress lay on the floor, covered by a worn blanket that barely covered him. A single crate served as his table, atop which sat a chipped tin cup and a broken lantern.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

He closed the door behind him, shutting out the sight of the slum but unable to escape the despair that clung to the place. The cold gnawed at him, the hollow ache in his stomach a constant reminder of the hunger shared by all around him. He leaned against the door, feeling the weight of his new reality pressing down on him.

He slept until the thin morning light began slipping through the cracked roof of his shack, casting pale streaks over the bare floor. When he stirred, a dull sense of unease settled over him, and he blinked in surprise as a realization hit him: I missed my shift.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he rose, still wearing the clothes he’d slept in, and slipped out into the cold morning air. His memories were fragmented and unreliable, but something in his bones remembered the way, guiding him through the narrow, muddy paths of the slum and toward the outskirts of the city where he worked as a night guard at a farm. He pushed forward, breath ragged and steady, as he wove through streets and fields, each step one more layer of fog lifting from his mind.

Finally, he reached the familiar gate, his chest heaving from the exertion. There, sitting calmly in front of the gate, was the old farmhand, leaning back on his stool and watching with a wary eye.

The man’s mouth pulled into a slight smirk. “If I were you, I wouldn’t want to show my face here,” he drawled, his tone as indifferent as it was blunt. “You know what’ll happen if the boss catches sight of you.”

The man’s words were clear, but Adam could barely process them. “Does he know?”

“You’ve been absent for over two weeks,of course he knows,” the old man replied, raising a brow. “You can consider this matter already done. No need for you to even set foot on the grounds.”

Adam recognized, even in his haze, that the farmhand spoke from experience. Though his words were harsh, the man was only relaying the truth: showing up would only get him humiliated before he was thrown out for good. For a moment, he stood there, frozen, taking in the finality of it. So it’s over, he thought numbly.

Turning away from the farm gate, he began to mutter under his breath. “What do I do now?” he asked himself, though no answer came. His stomach growled, loud and hollow, tugging him back to his immediate needs.

The farmhand heard the sound and tilted his head thoughtfully. “Your best bet now,” he said with a shrug, “is probably the church. If the Father’s in, he might spare you some food.”

The mention of the church stirred something in Adam’s memory. The Father was a charitable man, one well-regarded among the city’s poor, often known to help those who had nothing left. What else do I have to lose? Adam thought, the emptiness in his stomach driving his steps. He had no plan—just the faintest hope for a meal, if luck was on his side.