The alley slled like rotting garbage and stale piss.
A child walked through shadows, his thin fra barely visible in the dim light filtering between buildings.
Alessio.
Nine years old, holding a book he’d found in a dumpster three days ago.
He couldn’t read the words on the cover, didn’t know what the symbols ant, had only kept it because sothing about the worn pages felt important.
His days were spent hunting for food, stealing when opportunity presented itself, running when caught.
But today had been different.
Today he’d stumbled onto a stock of bread left unguarded for just long enough.
Five whole pieces, more food than he’d seen in weeks.
His stomach was full for the first ti in recent mory, and boredom crept in alongside the unfamiliar sensation of satisfaction.
A child’s curiosity stirred despite years of survival hardening his instincts.
He spotted the old man sitting against brick wall at the alley’s far end, a book open in weathered hands, eyes moving across pages with practiced ease.
Alessio stopped, studying him from a distance.
He had weak arms and no weapons visible. Old enough that running would be difficult. He was no threat.
The book in the old man’s hands looked similar to the one Alessio carried.
He moved closer, his footsteps silent from years of learning to avoid attention.
The old man looked up as Alessio approached, his weathered face showing neither fear nor pity, just patient curiosity.
Alessio’s voice ca out rough from disuse.
"...Do you know how to read?"
The old man blinked, his head tilting slightly.
"Hm?"
He studied the malnourished child standing before him, really looked, like he was seeing sothing fascinating hidden beneath layers of dirt and desperation.
"...I do know."
Alessio threw the book at him without warning.
The old man caught it reflexively, his movents quicker than his aged appearance suggested.
"Tell what this book is."
The old man looked at the book strangely, his fingers carefully rubbing dirt from the cover, revealing faded lettering underneath.
When he spoke, his voice was soft, almost reverent.
"...It’s a novel."
Alessio frowned, the word unfamiliar.
"Read it to ."
The old man’s eyes sharpened, studying Alessio with an intensity that made the child’s survival instincts scream warnings.
"Are you sure?"
His voice carried weight that didn’t match the simple question.
"When I start reading it... there is no going back."
Alessio’s confusion showed on his face, but he’d survived nine years by trusting his gut and his gut said this old man wasn’t lying.
Sothing about this mattered.
He didn’t understand why, didn’t know what "no going back" ant, but the words settled in his chest like a promise.
"Read it, old man."
The old man’s lips curved slightly, sothing that might have been amusent or sadness or both.
"What can you offer ?"
The question ca out almost playful, like he already knew the answer.
Alessio thought about the bread hidden in his ragged shirt, the biggest stock he’d caught in weeks, enough to keep him fed for days.
His hand moved automatically, pulling out one small piece.
He threw it at the old man.
"Here... Now read it."
The old man caught the bread, looked at it for a long mont, then set it aside carefully.
He opened the novel, his weathered fingers turning to the first page.
And began to read.
His voice transford the alley, turned garbage and despair into sothing else entirely, wove stories of monsters and heroes and worlds beyond imagination.
Alessio sat down without realizing it, his hollow eyes fixed on the old man’s face, his child’s mind drinking in every word like water after drought.
Hours passed.
The sun moved across the sky.
And when the old man finally closed the book, Alessio spoke again.
"...More?"
The old man smiled, the expression carrying knowledge of futures that hadn’t happened yet.
"Tomorrow. If you’re here tomorrow, I’ll read more."
He stood, joints creaking, and walked away into the shadows.
Alessio sat alone in the alley, the novel lying where the old man had left it, his mind making assumptions about the old man.
****
The alley was the sa, but Alessio had changed.
He was still nine, still malnourished, but muscle showed beneath rags now and his eyes carried sothing harder than before.
He’d killed his first man two weeks ago.
Stabbed him for a piece of bread, didn’t hesitate and didn’t vomit after.
The old man sat in his usual spot, the novel open on his lap, reading another Chapter in that sa asured tone.
When he finished, Alessio spoke.
"...In the story... who’s the hero? Who protects humanity?"
The old man looked at him, really looked, like he was seeing sothing fascinating and tragic playing out in real ti.
"There are multiple heroes in this tale."
His voice carried weight that made reality feel thin.
"But whether they save the world or simply bear witness to its ending... even the story doesn’t know yet."
Alessio’s young face twisted with frustration.
"But there must be soone strong enough. Soone who can win."
"Oh, if we speak of potential..."
The old man’s eyes grew distant, like he was looking through ti itself.
"The strongest potential belonged to several individuals. But one in particular had the potential to stand as a pillar upon which the world’s survival might have rested."
"Who?"
The old man was silent for a long mont, as if deciding whether the answer was worth speaking aloud.
"Elizabeth Murdock."
The na erged like prophecy.
"She possessed talent beyond asure and an innate skill that would have allowed her to perceive truth across temporal boundaries. To see futures branching like rivers, to understand consequences before they manifested, to know which paths led to salvation and which to ruin."
His voice beca softer, almost sad.
"More importantly, she cared. Genuinely cared for humanity’s continued existence. All her life, she wanted nothing for herself. No power, no glory and no recognition. Just the simple desire to see people survive."
The boy leaned forward, caught by the story despite himself.
"Able to see the future... if I had that ability, I could see where tomorrow’s food would be."
The old man actually laughed, the sound warm and genuine.
"Indeed, Alessio. That would be a wonderful use of such power. Perhaps the most honest application anyone could imagine."
The boy’s expression shifted, becoming more serious.
"So is she the one who saved humanity? The hero who won?"
The old man’s face went still, like he’d slipped into a trance, his eyes unfocused, seeing sothing beyond the present mont.
When he spoke again, his voice carried the weight of inevitable tragedy.
"The person who wants to save the world rarely possesses the strength to save themselves. It’s paradoxical."
He blinked, returning to awareness, his weathered features showing sothing like grief.
"Elizabeth Murdock died before she could reach her potential. Cut down before she ever truly blood. All that possibility, all that care, all that desperate hope to protect humanity..."
He closed the book with deliberate finality.
"...extinguished like a candle in the wind."
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