CHAPTER 13

The Stranger Returns

The wind howled against the city's cold bones as I huddled near the alley's edge, my coat barely a shield against the bitter air. My stomach twisted with hunger, my body stiff from days of sleeping on concrete. The world moved on without me—cars sped by, laughter drifted from warm-lit cafes, and people walked past, their lives untouched by the weight of survival.

I kept my head down, letting the sounds blend into static. Then, a shadow blocked the streetlight. My pulse lurched. I lifted my gaze, and there he was—the same stranger who had given me that sandwich days ago.

He wore the same rugged coat, his hands tucked into his pockets, but now there was something else in his eyes. A quiet determination.

"You're still here," he said, his voice steady but edged with something I couldn't quite place.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, tasting defeat. "Didn't have anywhere else to go."

He crouched, his breath visible in the cold. "I had a feeling."

I glanced away, embarrassment curling inside me. What did it say about me that a stranger pitied me enough to return? That I was nothing more than another lost soul drowning in the city's underbelly?

"Listen," he continued. "I run a shelter not far from here. You can come with me. Get warm. Get some food."

A shelter. The word sat heavy in my chest. I had avoided them—too many rules, too much vulnerability. But my body ached with exhaustion, and the weight of the streets pressed harder every day.

Still, I hesitated. "Why are you doing this?"

He exhaled, his breath a cloud between us. "Because I was here once too."

That caught me off guard. I studied him, searching for traces of the life he had left behind. There were ghosts in his eyes, shadows of battles fought and survived. I wondered how many others he had tried to save before me.

I wanted to say yes. I wanted to stand, to let someone else carry the burden for a while. But fear wrapped around my ribs, squeezing tight. Trust was a luxury I couldn't afford.

"I—" My voice faltered. My pride screamed at me to refuse, to pretend I was fine.

But I wasn't.

He seemed to sense my war with myself because he didn't push. Instead, he stood, reaching into his pocket. "I'll be at St. Vincent's every night. If you decide you want help, come find me." He held out a small piece of paper.

My fingers trembled as I took it. His name was scribbled on the back. Samuel.

He gave me one last look before walking away, his silhouette swallowed by the night.

I sat there, staring at the paper, my heart a battlefield.

---

The hunger won.

Two nights later, I found myself standing outside St. Vincent's, nerves twisting in my stomach. It wasn't what I expected. No steel bars, no locked doors. Just a small building with warm lights and the scent of something familiar—home-cooked food.

I hovered near the entrance, my feet refusing to cross the threshold.

"You gonna stand out there all night?"

My head snapped up. Samuel leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

My pride reared its head, but exhaustion shoved it down. "I don't know if I can do this."

He stepped closer. "You don't have to do it all at once. Just take the first step."

The weight of his words pressed against my ribs. One step. Just one.

I took a breath and walked inside.

The warmth hit me first, wrapping around my frozen bones like a blanket. The chatter of voices, the scrape of spoons against bowls—it was a world apart from the silence of the streets.

A woman approached, her face kind. "Welcome. Let's get you some food."

I nodded, words failing me. As I ate—slowly at first, then hungrily—I felt Samuel watching. Not in judgment, but with something close to understanding.

When the bowl was empty, he sat across from me. "What's your name?"

I hesitated. "Celeste."

He nodded. "Celeste." He said it like it meant something like I was more than just another lost soul. "How long have you been out there?"

I swallowed, tracing the rim of my bowl. "Too long."

He didn't press. Instead, he leaned back. "I won't ask you for your story. But if you ever want to tell it, I'll listen."

Something in my chest cracked. No one had ever said that before. No one had ever offered to listen without expecting something in return.

I didn't know what to say. So I didn't say anything.

---

Days passed. Then a week. Then two.

I slept in a real bed. I showered without the fear of someone stealing my clothes. I ate meals that filled more than just my stomach.

But the fear lingered.

One night, as I sat by the window, staring at the city I once called home, Samuel joined me.

"You're thinking about running, aren't you?" he asked, his voice quiet.

My breath hitched. "I don't belong here."

He studied me. "That's not true."

I clenched my fists. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be… normal."

He sighed. "You don't have to be normal. You just have to be willing to try."

I laughed, but it came out broken. "And what if I fail?"

His gaze was steady. "Then you get back up."

Tears burned my eyes. I had spent so long being invisible, so long convincing myself that I was beyond saving. And yet, here he was, offering me a lifeline I wasn't sure I deserved.

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe in myself. But the road ahead was steep, and the ghosts of my past were relentless.

Still, as I sat there, wrapped in the quiet safety of St. Vincent's, I allowed a single, fragile hope to bloom.

Maybe, just maybe, I wasn't lost after all.

---

But peace never lasted long.

Late one night, as I lay in bed, the distant echo of footsteps outside sent my heart hammering. A voice—sharp and familiar—cut through the quiet.

"Celeste! I know you're in there!"

My blood ran cold.

The past had found me.

And this time, I wasn't sure if I could outrun it.