Morning light stabbed through the thin curtains, slicing me awake. My neck ached, my mouth sour with the taste of a night spent alone in a borrowed bed. Hunger twisted inside me before my eyes had even focused. I ignored it, pushed myself upright, and splashed icy water on my face from the rust-stained sink in the corner. The silence pressed down, wrong and unnatural. Back home, mornings erupted roosters, barking dogs, neighbors shouting over walls. Here, the city's murmur crept beneath everything, a restless drone that never quit engines coughing, voices blurring, a taxi horn snapping at ghosts. It made me feel small, but somewhere deep in my chest, something braced itself against the tide. I had nothing for breakfast. I knotted my shoes tight, hugged my bag to my ribs, and stepped out into the morning. People rushed past, eyes fixed ahead, jaws set. Everyone moved like they belonged, like the streets recognized them. I drifted between them, a smudge on the city's glass. The cold bit at my arms, but walking numbed it. I stopped at every "Help Wanted" sign I saw—old, curling, impossible. The new ones wanted years I didn't have, skills I'd never learned. Sometimes I wondered if need had a scent, if the way I clung to my bag or the tremor in my voice made people turn away. If they looked at me and saw something broken, or worse, invisible. By midday, hunger was a knife. I sat on a crumbling wall outside a shop, pretending to check my phone no data, just the cracked screen for company. I pressed my forehead to my knees and told myself I wouldn't cry. Not here. Not yet. A knot of girls walked by laughter sharp as glass. One glanced at me, flinched, looked away. It stung more than it should have. But what did I expect? I was nobody here. Not yet. Still, I got up. Walked again. Asked again. At a printing shop, the owner a heavy man with a beard like steel wool looked at my CV longer than anyone. My heart battered my ribs. He handed it back, eyes tired. "Try next month," he said. Next month? I didn't know if I'd make it to next week. By late afternoon, every step was fire. I leaned against a railing, watching cars snake by, faces inside glowing with comfort I couldn't touch. People going home. People with dinners waiting. People who didn't have to count coins or wonder how long they could last. I wondered if my mother had ever walked these streets, if she'd ever stood in this kind of ache, lost and hungry and erased. Maybe she'd fit here in a way I never could. Maybe I was chasing a ghost that never belonged to me.A gust carried the greasy sweetness of fried chicken. My stomach cramped hard. The vendor caught my eye and I looked away, shame burning my cheeks. Pride is a stupid thing. It keeps you moving long after you've worn through hope. When the sky bruised orange, I shuffled back to the room. The hallway was a throat of peeling paint and shadows. I unlocked my door, collapsed onto the bed, body buzzing with exhaustion. I opened my battered notebook pages curled, edges dirty from too many days on the move. My hand shook as I wrote: Today I learned the city doesn't care. It doesn't wait. If you stumble, it walks over you, never looking down. But I won't break. I can't. Not yet. I stared at those words, the ink bleeding into the cheap paper. I will find her. Whoever she was. Whatever she left behind. I'll drag the truth out of this place, even if it tears me apart. The city lights blinked on, cold and bright. Somewhere inside me, a stubborn ember glowed. Small. Hungry. Still burning
