A Roof

Each step he took carried him further into the quiet, the world dimming with every footfall. Overhead, the clouds drifted, tinted gold and gray as the sun tucked itself beneath the skyline. People vanished into doorways, shops pulled down their shutters, and the once-bustling street gave way to a skeleton of old buildings, their windows dark, their bricks worn thin by time.

Echo slipped his hands into his jacket pockets. His fingers touched the familiar clink of change — 8 Solins.

"Wait.... one's missing. Must've dropped it while running." He frowned.

He wandered deeper into the sleeping city, eyes scanning for a place to rest. Exhaustion dragged at him. The sky had turned violet-black, and his eyelids began to falter under their own weight.

"I can find a bench... maybe at the park."

But every corner turned up nothing — no sign of trees, no open spaces. Only empty sidewalks and locked doors.

Eventually, he found a narrow alley wedged between two crumbling buildings. Puddles shimmered faintly in the moonlight, catching oil-slick reflections from a flickering lamp above. A rusted trash can leaned sideways near the wall, surrounded by scattered paper and the faint smell of rain and rot.

Without thinking twice, Echo slid down beside it. The cold concrete bit through his clothes. His body curled inward. He lay still and the city moved on without him.

...

At the dead of night.

Echoes of frantic footsteps pounded against the cracked pavement, sharp and uneven, a desperate rhythm tearing through the silence.

"Somebody help!"

In the dim light, his hands twisted — no longer human, but a grotesque fusion of shadow and flesh, dark veins crawling beneath cracked skin, tendrils writhing.

He raced toward the hospital's looming silhouette, the flickering neon sign sputtering. His feet splashed through a shallow pool of rainwater, sending ripples that distorted the flickering streetlamp's glow.

Suddenly, his legs convulsed, muscles knotting with unnatural pain. The dark corruption spread, swallowing bone and sinew. His knees buckled. He collapsed, chest heaving against the cold, unforgiving ground.

"Help!" His voice cracked in terror.

His face convulsed, melting away like wax beneath a merciless flame. One monstrous eye opened where two once were, swollen and glazed with a heavy, suffocating darkness. His mouth stretched impossibly wide, a cavern of shadow and silent screams.

Long strands of hair spilled out, tangled and wet, fanning across the puddle like dark reeds.

A scream ripped free — painful, guttural — a sound that seemed to shred the very air before dissolving into a void of silence.

The transformation was complete. He was no longer himself — only "it" remained.

Far above, the night sky swallowed a lone hat, tumbling through the air. It drifted slowly, carried by a breath of wind, before landing with a soft thud atop the ancient clock tower, its worn brim casting a shadow over the frozen hands of time.

Without warning, the bell rang out — off time and out of place. Nearby, people stopped in confusion. Birds scattered into the night sky.

...

Echo stirred awake, his vision swimming in a dull blur. For a moment, he couldn't tell where he was — only the gray light and the biting chill.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and pushed himself upright. In front of him: a cracked brick wall. To his left, the rusted trash bin he'd curled beside last night, still reeking faintly of spoiled food and rain-soaked paper. On his right, the world had resumed — people walked past the alley, their footsteps brisk, their faces already lost in routine.

His legs were numb. He hadn't noticed until he tried to move. The cold had crawled into his bones. He wrapped his arms around his knees, hugging himself tightly.

"I might end up dead here..."

With effort, he stood. His joints ached, and the stiffness made him stagger slightly as he stepped out of the alley. Sunlight spilled over him in a sudden glare, forcing him to squint. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes.

Children passed with backpacks bouncing on their shoulders, laughter slipping into the morning air. Adults kept to themselves, bundled in coats and scarves, their breath curling out in white streams. A nearby tree rustled in the wind — each branch swaying, shedding a few stubborn leaves. The breeze knifed through Echo's jacket. It did little to help.

On the rooftop across the street, a cat chased after a sleek, gray tabby. Their paws skidded across the tiles before vanishing behind a chimney.

Echo turned left and walked. His stomach let out a long, hollow groan.

"I'm hungry again..." he pressed a hand against his side.

He walked a bit farther until a modest café came into view across the street. Soft yellow light spilled from its windows, warm against the dull morning gray. A few people sat outside under a short awning — some chatting with tired smiles, others hunched over steaming mugs, lost in their own thoughts.

Echo crossed the street and stepped inside. The sound struck him first — louder than expected. Conversations overlapped in a low, constant murmur. Ceramic cups clinked on saucers, chairs scraped against tile, and the sweet scent of bread and citrus drifted from a corner display. Two waiters darted between tables, each balancing a tray of teacups and woven baskets filled with golden pastries.

He moved toward the counter, but a small line had already formed. His stomach groaned in protest.

"Keep still.... Don't think about food."

To distract himself, Echo reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a single Solin. He held it between his thumb and index finger, eyes half-lidded with focus.

He began practicing an old trick — one he'd been taught by a magician.

With a slight inward pull of his thumb, the coin dropped into the natural curl of his other fingers, resting against his palm — a classic finger palm retention vanish. To the casual observer, it simply disappeared.

To make it reappear, he shifted his thumb inward again, pressing the coin gently back into the crook between his thumb and index finger — returning it to its original position in a smooth, practiced motion.

He repeated the movement in silence, keeping the coin hidden in the folds of his right hand while his left hovered nearby for natural misdirection. With a subtle curl and roll of his fingers, he performed the vanish again — the Solin slipping from sight as if swallowed by the air.

He looked ahead. The line was getting shorter, creeping toward the counter.

In front of him stood a woman gently bouncing a child on her hip. The baby's wide eyes locked onto Echo's face — unblinking, curious. The stare was unnerving.

Echo shifted his gaze to the floor, then to the walls, anywhere but the child.

"This is awkward..."

The woman stepped forward. So did Echo. She placed her order and moved toward a corner table, settling the child into a high chair with practiced ease. Their turn was over — his had come.

"Next!" called the barista, a man who looked barely older than Echo, with dark circles under his eyes and a strained smile. Echo stepped up to the counter.

"What would you like to order, sir?"

"I'll… I'll have a bread." Unsure whether he should've said a piece instead.

"Alright. That'll be four Solins. Is that all?"

"…Yes."

One of the waiters appeared, sliding a crusty golden roll onto a small napkin.

"Here you go, sir."

Echo reached into his pocket. The cool metal of the coins brushed his fingertips — eight Solins. He handed over four, watched the coins clink into the cash drawer, and left without another word.

Outside, he found a spot near the café wall and sat down on the edge of the pavement. His body slouched as he unwrapped the bread and took a slow bite. It was soft on the inside, still warm. But his focus drifted.

He stared at his hands. They looked worse in the sunlight — fingertips rough, grime caught beneath the nails, dirt smudged across the knuckles and palms. The lines on his skin looked deeper now. His fingers trembled slightly from hunger.

He took another bite. He finished the last bite of bread, brushing the crumbs from his lips. The paper wrapping crackled in his hand before he folded it neatly and tucked it into his jacket pocket — no trash can in sight.

Back on his feet, he pulled out the remaining coins and let them jingle in his palm. Only four Solins left.

"I need to make more."

He walked until he found a small clearing near a storefront window — vacant, sunlit, and overlooked. It wasn't ideal, but it would do. Echo slipped off his jacket and spread it on the ground in front of him like a makeshift mat. He knelt beside it and took a steady breath.

He began performing small illusions. He held the coin delicately between his thumb and index finger, angled for visibility. With a smooth pull inward, it slid along the side of his index. His other fingers curled and captured it in finger palm, while his left hand lifted for coverage. A flick of misdirection.

But most passersby barely slowed down. A few glanced, some with tired eyes, others with indifference. One woman smiled faintly. An older man dropped a coin without looking.

By the end of it, Echo had made four cents. He stood, brushing off his knees, and pulled his jacket back on. The coins felt small and cold in his palm.

"Today's not my lucky day..." he whispered, curling his fingers around the meager earnings.

Echo slipped the coins into his pocket. He exhaled, long and quiet, then looked up toward the sky. The sun pierced through a break in the clouds, flashing against his eyes and forcing him to squint.

"Would you like to apply to my business?"

The voice came from below. Echo lowered his gaze and blinked.

A child stood in front of him. Maybe ten years old, wearing a wrinkled button-up far too big for his frame and a fake mustache glued just slightly crooked on his upper lip. He had a clipboard tucked under one arm and the air of someone who took himself very seriously. There was a long pause.

"You'll get a free room—"

"Deal." Echo replied immediately, eyes half-lidded with fatigue.

"Hey! Let me finish!" The boy frowned, adjusting his fake mustache with pride. "I'm Milo. You'll have to do whatever jobs I give you, got it?"

He extended a small hand. Echo stared at it.

"What kind of jobs?"

Milo shrugged, casual as if listing groceries. "Writing. Shoe cleaning. Performing. Babysitting. Odd errands. You know... business things."

Echo hesitated for only a second before reaching out and shaking Milo's hand.

"Good," Milo nodded with authority. "Now follow me. Let me show you your room."

And without another word, the boy turned on his heel, mustache wobbling slightly as he marched forward like a general who owned the whole street.

Echo followed, unsure whether he'd made a clever choice or the strangest mistake of his life. But the promise of a roof and maybe a second loaf of bread was good enough.

They arrived at a narrow alley tucked behind an old residential house. At the end of it stood a half-collapsed building, its wooden frame bowed inward. Ivy clung to the wood. A faded sign above the crooked door read "Crescent Pages" — the remnants of what had once been a bookstore.

Milo marched confidently ahead. Echo followed without a word. Inside, the front room was thick with dust. Bookshelves lay fallen across the floor, some half-buried under crumbling plaster. The scent of damp paper and mold hung heavy in the air. Footprints — probably Milo's — were the only clean marks across the soot-gray dust. One bookshelf had completely toppled, lying like a corpse in the middle of the room.

Along the left wall, a narrow staircase climbed into darkness, but Milo ignored it and led Echo to a low hallway on the right. They passed a rusted bathroom door with peeling paint before stopping in front of a room with no door at all.

"This is your room. Come on in." Milo said, gesturing like a realtor showing off luxury property.

Echo stepped inside. It was small — barely wide enough to stretch both arms. Dust caked every surface. Trash — crumpled wrappers, scraps of paper, the skeleton of a takeout box — lined the corners. A single mattress rested on a warped metal bedframe, the sheets long gone. A cracked mirror hung beside a rickety closet missing one of its doors. On the far wall, a narrow sink was tucked into an alcove that connected to the bathroom next door.

"Don't worry about the dust. That just means no one's been here. It's exclusive."

"There's a dead rat in the corner," Echo pointed out.

Milo glanced over, unbothered. "I call him Terry. He's a tenant. Don't touch his side of the floor."

A long silence followed. Echo didn't even blink.

"… Do you live here?"

"Yup. I sleep upstairs. Better air flow."

Milo pointed toward the ceiling. A fist-sized hole in the plaster opened to the next floor. A breeze — faint and cold — drifted down through it.

"Anyway, make yourself at home. You start working tomorrow."

He spun around and strutted out, his fake mustache wobbling as he disappeared down the hall.

Echo looked around the room again. Dust swirled in the sunlight slicing through a broken windowpane.

Echo crouched down and began cleaning, one piece of trash at a time. He scooped wrappers, crumpled receipts, and bits of torn fabric into an old takeout box. When he reached the corner, he hesitated only for a second. Using another scrap of trash as a glove, he pinched the rat by its tail and dropped it gently inside with the rest.

"Terry, rent's overdue...."

He carried the box toward the small sink built into the wall beside the bathroom. As he leaned over, he caught sight of his hands — coated in layers of grime, smudges settled deep in the lines of his palms.

He turned the faucet. The water stuttered before flowing — thin, sickly, and yellow-tinted, like it had clawed its way up from a rusted pipe. Still, it washed over his hands, pulling dirt down the basin in lazy spirals. He stared for a moment. He forgot why he came to the sink at all.

Leaving the water running, Echo stepped back and faced the mirror on the wall.

He still had his body. That same angular face, the same tired eyes. But his skin looked drained of warmth. His jacket sagged on his shoulders, threadbare and stained. The knees of his pants were thin enough to tear with a single wrong movement. He looked like a ghost dressed in the scraps of someone else's life. And the worst part is; He didn't look any happier than when he was back in his world.

"I'm... alive? Why am I here?"

The memory returned. The wind roaring past him. The sky turning as he fell. After that, nothing.

He flinched, shaking his head sharply.

With slow, careful steps, he sat on the edge of the mattress. Springs creaked beneath him. Dust swirled in a thin beam of light seeping through the cracked windowpane, eyes drifting toward the glass.

Outside, the world moved gently. A few leaves stirred in the breeze. The sky wore a soft gray.

"I'm clearly dead... yet I'm here... for some reason."

He placed a hand over his chest. His heart still beat, slow and steady.