Amid piles of broken crates, spoiled food, and human waste sat a skinny boy, no more than seven years old. His only clothing was an old, ragged coat far too large for his bony frame, its hem dragging in the filth. Black hair hung in matted strands over brown skin stretched tight across sharp cheekbones. His brown eyes stared at nothing, empty and soulless, as if the life inside him had already slipped away.
A dry cough rattled in his chest. He wiped his cracked lips with the back of a trembling hand, then lifted his head. All around him was garbage—endless, filthy garbage. The sight crushed what little strength he had left. His heart ached in a way he could not name.
Why? he asked himself silently. Why was I born like this? Born into nothing? I never hurt anyone. Why am I being punished?
The words echoed in his mind, over and over.
Life is not fair. Life is not fair.
At last, a faint whisper escaped his dry lips.
"…I just wanna die."
He curled into a tight ball on the filthy ground and cried, silent tears soaking into the dirt.
Soft footsteps crunched nearby, barely audible over his own sobs. He ignored them, squeezing his eyes shut tighter, convinced he was imagining things again.
Then came a sound so gentle it cut straight through the darkness.
Meow.
He froze. Slowly, he opened his eyes.
In front of him stood a tiny black kitten. Its fur gleamed like midnight silk, and its eyes sparkled like stars fallen from the sky. He had never seen anything so beautiful. For the first time in his life, something warm flickered inside his chest.
He didn't know what it was—he had never seen a cat before—but he couldn't look away. Hesitantly, he lifted a shaking hand.
The kitten stepped forward and rubbed its small head against his palm
His heart exploded. Joy and fear crashed together, so strong he could barely breathe. A shaky smile tugged at his lips.
But then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the kitten turned and trotted away.
"No…" he whispered. Panic rose in his throat. That tiny creature was the only good thing he had ever touched. If it left, the darkness would swallow him again.
"Come back…" His voice cracked, raw and desperate. "Come back!"
He scrambled to his feet and chased after it.
The kitten darted through narrow alleys and over heaps of trash. His bare feet slipped in the muck, but he kept running, calling hoarsely. Before he realized it, the familiar stench of the slums faded. The ground beneath him turned hard and even. The kitten vanished around a corner.
A massive shape thundered toward him—a gleaming carriage pulled by horses. He stumbled back in terror, falling hard onto the stone street. The carriage roared past, wheels clattering.
When he looked up, the kitten was gone.
He curled into a ball again, ready for the familiar weight of despair to crush him.
But something was different.
Warm sunlight touched his skin. Real sunlight, not the weak gray light that sometimes filtered through the smog of the slums.
Slowly, he uncurled and opened his eyes.
Clean streets stretched before him, paved with smooth stone. Tall buildings of white and gold gleamed under the sun. People walked by in bright, spotless clothes, their faces healthy and full. The air smelled of flowers and fresh bread.
He was the only dirty thing here.
People glanced at him as they passed, noses wrinkling, eyes narrowing in confusion or disgust. He didn't care. For the first time, his eyes were wide with wonder, darting everywhere, drinking it all in.
This… this was life?
He stood and wandered, barefoot and filthy, through streets he never knew existed. He passed a grand fountain where water spiraled and danced in the air, catching the light like liquid diamonds. Nearby, a beautiful lady in a flowing dress laughed as a handsome man leaned in and kissed her softly.
Michael stopped and stared. He didn't understand what they were doing, but something deep inside him ached with longing. He wanted that. Whatever it was, he wanted it.
All day he walked, starstruck, the depression that had chained him for seven years melting away like morning fog.
When night came, he found a patch of soft grass in a quiet park and lay down. Above him, the sky was clear—no smoke, no haze. Countless stars glittered like the kitten's eyes.
He raised his small hands toward them, laughing in pure delight, the sound high and babyish.
"Wow… so cool… haha… I want one! I want one!"
For the first time in his life, he fell asleep smiling. And for the first time ever, he dreamed—not of hunger or pain, but of light.
He woke before dawn, shivering in the cold. Still clutching the wonder of the day before, he wandered until he turned a corner and stopped dead.
A man lay slumped against a wall, his fine clothes soaked with blood. A long gash ran across his side.
Michael's heart pounded. He wanted to run, but the man's eyes found him.
"Boy," the man rasped weakly. "Come here."
Michael hesitated, then stepped closer. "A-are you okay, sir?"
The man gave a pained chuckle. "I'll live. What's your name?"
"…Michael. My name is Michael, sir."
"Michael." The man nodded. "Good name. They call me Wraith." He studied the boy's ragged coat and bare feet. "You don't belong around here, do you? Slum kid?"
Michael looked down and said nothing.
Wraith's expression softened. "Don't worry, lad. Check my left pocket."
Michael knelt and reached in. His fingers closed around a heavy leather pouch. When he opened it, shiny metal circles gleamed inside—more wealth than he had ever imagined.
"Take it," Wraith said, voice growing faint. "That's yours now. Buy anything you want. Food, clothes… anything. Now go. Run. Get far away from here."
Michael stood slowly, clutching the pouch to his chest. He didn't want to leave the man, but Wraith's eyes were firm.
"Go."
Michael turned and ran.
He ran until his legs burned and his lungs ached. Finally, he collapsed onto a bench in the same park, breathing hard. People still stared at the filthy, stinking child, but he barely noticed.
He opened the pouch and pulled out one shining coin. Holding it up to the rising sun, he remembered Wraith's words.
Anything I want.
A small, wondering smile spread across his face.
"What do I want?" he whispered to himself.
Then, louder, with growing certainty:
"I want a good life. A happy one. With lots of friends."
He stared at the coin, then laughed—bright, free, and joyful, the sound ringing through the morning air.
"Anything I want… really?"
He pointed the coin toward the sun, watching the light dance across it, and laughed again, louder this time.
For the first time in his seven years, Michael Wraith believed he could have something more.