Chapter 11 – A Street Bathed in Gold

The announcement jolted him out of his thoughts. With a soft breath, Rony stood up and stepped out of the train. The warm colors of the setting sun spilled across the platform like golden syrup, pooling between the cracks and stretching long shadows behind every passenger. The wind was calm. It carried with it the subtle scent of street food and the distant hum of a busy city winding down.

He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, feeling its familiar weight, and put one earbud back in. A soft, mellow tune floated through — one of those songs that didn't just play in your ears but filled the chest with warmth. It matched the rhythm of his walk almost too perfectly, like the universe had planned it.

"Not too far now," he whispered to himself.

His hostel was just a twenty-minute walk from the station, but Rony didn't want to rush. No, today he wanted to walk slowly, gently — to stretch every second of this oddly perfect evening. He moved along the sidewalk as if in a slow dance, his steps syncing with the beat, his fingers occasionally tapping the rhythm against the side of his jeans.

It was the kind of evening that didn't scream beauty — it whispered it.

The sky above was dipped in a rich orange, bleeding into soft purples and faint blues at the edges. A few birds traced lazy arcs overhead, and streetlights flickered on one by one, bathing everything in a soft, golden hue. Children's laughter echoed from a nearby alley where two kids were kicking around a deflated football. A shopkeeper laughed at something on his phone while another argued cheerfully with a customer about the price of vegetables.

But Rony didn't focus on them. His world was quiet, contained within the soft music and the slow thudding of his own heart.

"I'm happy," he thought. And then he laughed softly under his breath. "Weird."

It wasn't a loud, giddy happiness. It wasn't the kind that made you want to shout or jump or run. It was gentler — like the warm sunlight slipping through half-closed curtains, like the feeling of being under a blanket while it rained outside. It was the kind of joy that only came rarely, and only to those who had once gone long without it.

And Rony had. Oh, he had.

He remembered hospital corridors. The smell of disinfectant. The quiet sobs he muffled into pillows in high school. The long walks home, hands clenched in fists, face blank, thinking of his mother lying behind glass walls, pale and shrinking and smiling still.

He remembered the doctor's voice.

He remembered not saying goodbye properly.

He remembered the silence that followed.

But tonight, none of that silence followed him. Not really. It was there, yes — a quiet companion tucked somewhere in his chest — but it didn't hurt. Not now. Not in this moment.

"I wish you could've seen me, Ma," he murmured, voice carried off by the breeze. "I'm not doing bad. You'd be proud."

He blinked, not because he was about to cry, but because the breeze suddenly picked up, carrying the smell of fresh bread from a bakery down the street. He paused, inhaled deeply, and let the smell soak into his lungs.

He didn't care if people looked at him funny. Let them.

He looked up at the balconies overhead. A pair of old women sat sipping tea, their legs swinging like schoolgirls. A cat napped on a sun-warmed railing, undisturbed by anything the world had to offer.

Rony smiled at all of it — at the street, at the people, at the light. And he smiled at himself, too.

Maybe it was the money. Maybe it was the success. Maybe it was just a good song.

Or maybe it was the simple fact that he had made it this far.

A boy who once sat beside a hospital bed every day, watching tubes and blinking machines, now walking through golden evening light, earbuds in, heart steady, carrying a gift for the sister he loved.

Maybe that was enough.

He walked past a flower shop, pausing to admire the bunches of wildflowers stacked in buckets. Without thinking, he picked out a simple bouquet — a few daisies and marigolds tied in twine — and handed over a note. The old man at the counter didn't say much. Just smiled and nodded.

He walked on, holding the flowers gently, like something sacred.

He could imagine his sister's face lighting up when he handed her the bag, maybe with a playful punch on his arm or a "You didn't have to, dummy." She'd say that, but she'd smile like she meant it. And that was enough.

The road was glowing now. Each car that passed left a trail of red tail lights, like fireflies dancing in a row. The buildings were dressed in long shadows, and the windows lit up one by one like warm stars. And above it all, the sky stretched wide, vast, peaceful.

Rony breathed in deeply again. His chest felt light. No heaviness. No weight pressing on his lungs. Just air. Just life.

"I'm alive," he whispered, almost in disbelief. "And… I'm okay."

He touched the glasses perched on his nose. "Still holding up, huh?" he said fondly. They were old, scratched, outdated. But they were his. A gift from his parents. A keepsake from the life he once had. And despite everything, they'd never broken.

Neither had he.

He stopped at a crossing, letting a few scooters and bikes pass. A little boy peeked at him from the back of a scooter, his eyes wide. Rony smiled and gave a small wave. The boy grinned and waved back.

And just like that, something inside him clicked.

He didn't know what tomorrow would bring. He didn't know how long the game would stay popular, or how long he could juggle two lives — one in the real world, and one in the digital realm of fantasy. He didn't know when his next storm would come.

But right now, he didn't care.

Because this was peace.

And peace — no matter how brief — was a kind of magic too.

So he walked on, through streets that glowed like gold, flowers in hand, music in ears, heart filled with the kind of happiness that only those who have truly known sorrow can ever really feel.

And somewhere, in the quiet between footsteps, he swore he could hear her — his mother — laughing softly with him.