Chapter 6 - The Violin Girl

A soft shuffling broke the stillness.

Then — a figure crouched beside him.

She didn’t speak.

With hands steady and small, she unscrewed the cap of a battered canteen. Then, gently — as though lifting a wounded bird — she raised Alex’s head, just slightly, and tilted the rim to his lips. One slow pour. Cool water kissed his mouth. Not too much. Just enough.

His eyelids fluttered. His body stirred.

Then her hand — calloused, careful — brushed a damp curl of hair from his brow. It lingered there, then settled on his shoulder. Not rough. Not urgent. Just firm enough to say wake up, without ever speaking the words.

Alex blinked. His lashes trembled against the dim, half-lit street.

And there she was.

She didn’t move.

She didn’t smile.

Just watched him, quietly, as if waiting for the moment he’d return to his own body.

In one pale hand she held out a piece of bread.

Across from him sat a girl — not much older than he was, perhaps his age exactly. Blonde, with blue eyes sharp as frost, she perched on the edge of a low bench. Her posture was flawless — one leg crossed neatly over the other, back straight, hands still.

Her violin rested against her shoulder like a rifle ready for war.

She wore no ornament. Her clothes were plain, but clean. And somehow it made her much more elegant.

Pressed. There was something unnatural in her stillness — something that made the air around her feel colder than before.

Alex blinked again, dazed by the strange image before him. He opened his mouth — cracked lips, hoarse throat.

“…May I?”
His voice was barely a breath, nodding weakly toward the bread and water.

She nodded once.

He grabbed the water first and drank — greedily, like a dying man — swallowing every drop as though it were his last. She didn’t react. She simply watched.

When he paused, breath ragged, she said,
“Your friend earlier left you a piece of bread.”

Alex turned his head slightly. A crust lay beside him in the dirt. Stale, forgotten. Dante’s.

He stared at it.

“It’s stolen,” he muttered. “Or bought with money that is.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then:

“I see,” she said. “Your parents raised you well.”

That broke something in him.

“…I miss them,” he said, voice cracking.

“What is wrong… with the people here?”
His voice was trembling now. “Why are they rejecting me? All I wanted was work. Fair work. Fair earnings.”

She didn’t look away. Didn’t comfort. Didn’t lie.

“Have faith,” she said simply. “Not everyone here is bad. You will find work.”

“I’ve been looking for three days…”
He shook his head slowly. “Not the butcher. Not the chimney sweeper. Not the dock foreman…”
Each word came like a wound reopening.

“Each one laughed. Mocked me. Damn it!”

“If you're still asking, it means you're still fighting. Hang in there. It will happen.” She answered

“But… I can’t last like this…”
His eyes glazed, unfocused. “I need to return home… and I don't want to beg.“

"Is this how it starts?"

She watched him. Still. Calm. Silent.

Then she spoke, and her voice dropped lower. A strange tone entered it — something too old, too composed, too certain for someone her age.

“You’re descending,”

Alex stirred. “What…?”

“From the high places, where the good walk.”
“To the low, where the bitter feed on dust.”
“You were above. Now they call you down.”

He stared at her. “What are you saying…?”

She didn’t blink.

“The ones above—they shine,” she said softly. “Like your parents. Like you.”

“The ones below? They laughed and didn't help you when you wanted to work honest.”
“The butcher. The sweep-master. The foreman.”
“They want you down with them. Miserable. Filthy. Forgetting who you are.”

Her tone grew steadier.

“But you’ve got a strong grip.”
“And they are still helping you. Your parents. Even now.”

“So resist. Hold on. Someone else will come help. And if no one does—”

“Then climb.”

Alex stared. Her voice didn’t rise.

She didn’t urge.

She declared.

There was no warmth in it.

Only clarity.

Unnerving.

Like a prophecy whispered with surgical precision.

Then she added — more softly, more coldly:

“But if you fall to where they are…”

Her eyes held his.

“It’s hard to come back.”

“Climbing takes strength. Falling takes none.”

At that moment, a rough boot slammed down beside them. The crust of bread crushed beneath it with a wet squelch. A man’s voice muttered, “City’s full of strays,” before spitting and moving on.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t blink. Neither did Alex, lost in her eyes and her words.

Her voice returned, calm and silken:

“Stay above.”

“Make your parents proud.”

“Help those who are trying like you.”

And then — just barely — the corners of her lips lifted.

Let those beneath laugh themselves into ruin

The faintest smile.

Too gentle.

Too sophisticated.

Too sure.

As she rested her head on her hand.

“Am I right?”

Her words lingered like mist. There was no encouragement in them. No optimism. Just certainty. It struck Alex not as comfort, but as a strange and steady rhythm — like something ancient, something buried in stone.

He couldn’t look away.

She stood.

Brushed her skirt. Adjusted her violin.

“I apologize for talking too much,” she said, her voice light again — as if none of it had happened. “I’ll be taking my leave.”

She turned to go, graceful, measured.

“I’m Noor,” she added over her shoulder. “If you do need anything, come find me near the fountain of the plaza. I play there.”

Then she walked. The violin still rested on her shoulder like a soldier’s weapon.

“Good luck, friend,” she said.

Alex sat in silence.

He ate what was left. Drank what was left.

That speech.

It was strange.

But it made sense.

The water and bread steadied Alex, and Noor’s words echoed in his mind. He wiped his mouth, stood up, and felt a flicker of resolve.

The city was still alive outside. So was he.

Alex reached into his pocket… and found the lucky charm, the token his father gifted to him right before he departed to the city.

Clutching it, the boy stepped toward a new street.

Time to find work — no matter what.

____

Minutes later, Alex He paused. Tucked between two sagging structures was a tiny shop, its paint faded, its windows streaked with grime. Outside, an old man—stooped, bearded, and gruff-looking—was struggling to unload crates from a battered cart. His back hunched with effort, and his breath came short and irritable.

Alex hesitated, then stepped forward.

“Need a hand, sir?” he asked.

The old man didn’t look up. “Get lost,” he snapped. “Don’t need no pickpockets sniffin’ around.”

But Alex didn’t retreat this time. He decided to be bold. He stepped closer, bent over the nearest crate, and with a wince and a grunt, lifted it.

“Hey—!” the man barked. “I said—!”

He stopped. Alex, without meeting his eye, carried the crate inside, careful not to scrape it. Then returned, and lifted another.

The old man scowled. He looked at the boy, then at the many crates still left. He gave a harrumph.

“Tch... Fine. Hurry up, then. But just the crates and then you leave.”

Alex beamed—the first real smile to cross his face since arriving in the city—and nodded. “Yes, sir!”

Inside the Shop, Moments Later

The old man was still wiping the dust from his hands when the doorbell chimed. A pleasant-looking woman entered, dressed neatly, with kind eyes and a purse tucked under her arm. She halted at the sight of Alex behind the counter.

“Oh—hello there,” she said, surprised.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Alex replied warmly. “Welcome. How can I help you?”

She raised a brow, amused by his formal tone.

From the corner, the old man muttered, “Damn brat… he didn’t even finish unloadin’ the—”

He stopped short.

The crates were all inside. Stacked. Aligned. Not a splinter out of place.

"crates..."

The woman smiled. “Well, aren’t you charming? Do you have any of that sweet cinnamon soap?”

Alex turned politely. “Excuse me, sir. How much for the cinnamon soap?”

The old man blinked at him, still slightly dazed. “…Four coins,” he mumbled, shuffling toward the shelf.

“Four coins, ma’am.”

“Perfect,” she replied, digging through her purse. “I’ll take two.”

Alex went to the shelf, where the old man pointed, took two and bagged both gently and handed it over with both hands.

“That would be eight coins, ma’am.”

She accepted it and gave him a warm smile.

“You’re quite the young gentleman. I hope to see you again.”

“I hope so too,” Alex said simply with a slight bow and a gentle smile.

The door closed behind her with a pleasant chime. The old man stared at the boy. Still frowning, but with something unfamiliar behind the frown—a flicker of thought, or perhaps… approval.

Alex stepped forward quietly.

“If it’s alright,” he said, voice soft, “could I keep helping—just for today? I don’t ask for much. Anything you think is fair.”

The old man scratched his beard. His gaze lingered on Alex, steady and searching. Then he grunted.

“Hmph. Fine.”

Alex gave a small bow. “Thank you, sir. Really… Thank you.”

Later that evening,

The lamps glowed low and amber. The work was done.

Alex sat on a crate, breathing softly, eyelids heavy but heart light. His limbs ached, but it was an ache earned cleanly. Behind the counter, the old man counted the coins of the day, one by one.

Not a piece missing.

To himself he muttered : “Everything fits, nothing is missing. He didn't steal.”

He looked at Alex again.

“You’re not from here,” he said.

“No, sir,” Alex replied, quieter now.

“Ain’t just your looks. It’s how you talk. Too clean. Too soft. Too… hopeful.”

Alex gave a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I just moved here,” he said. “Trying to get by. Looking for honest work. But if today’s all you’ve got, I understand.”

The old man didn’t answer.

Instead, he reached under the counter and withdrew a small pouch. He dropped in more coins than expected, then tossed it across the counter.

“Don’t be late tomorrow.”

Alex froze.

“And don’t call me ‘sir’,” the man added, more sharply now. “Name’s Mr. Harris. Customers walk in, you call me boss. Got it?”

Alex stared at the pouch in his hands.

It felt heavier than it should have.

His fingers closed around it, trembling slightly.

“Yes, boss…” he whispered.

A couple of tears slipped down his cheeks, uninvited and silent.

He wiped them quickly, blinking through a crooked smile.

But more followed… he is just too happy that finally, he found something… something worth getting happy about.

Mr. Harris saw it. His scowl twitched, unsure whether to deepen or soften. He said nothing. He turned away and began sweeping the floor in slow, deliberate strokes.

“Damn soft kid…” he muttered to no one in particular.

The door of Dante's room in Dominick's apartment burst open with a crash, jolting Dante from his sprawl across the couch. A crust of half-eaten bread slipped from his hand, landing unceremoniously upon the floor.

“Good God!” he barked, his booted feet swinging down. “What’s happened?”

Alex stood in the doorway, panting, flushed with wind and elation. His chest rose and fell with breathless joy, and in his eyes danced a light that had not been there for many days.

“I did it,” he said, laughing—half in disbelief, half in wonder. “Dante—I did it !”

Dante blinked. “Did what?”

“I found work.” His voice broke as he spoke the words, and he laughed again, but there were tears too, catching in his throat. “I found work !”

He tossed a pouch onto the table between them.

It landed with a weighty clink.

The coins inside jostled and settled like proof of some dream long doubted.

Dante whistled, low and impressed.

“That’s a heavy pouch, buddy. Don’t tell me you sold your pride?”

“No.” Alex wiped his face, overwhelmed, still smiling. “It’s a shop. Run by an old man. Mr. Harris. He gave me a chance.”

“Well,” Dante said, sitting up straighter, his grin curling wide, “I’ll be damned. You really did it, village boy.”

“I can do it,” Alex said softly, the words forming as though he scarcely dared to believe them. “I can survive here.”

Dante caught the look in his friend’s eyes—a kind of trembling hope, fragile as wet paper.

He reached over and clapped him on the shoulder with familiar roughness.

“Good for you,” he said. “Give ’em hell.”

Alex’s smile remained, gentler now. He untied the pouch and loosened the drawstrings.

“We can split it,” he said.

Dante frowned. “What?”

“The money,” Alex said simply. “You helped me when I had nothing. So… we split it.”

Dante laughed, loud and sharp. “You’ve still got a long road ahead of you, farm boy. Keep it. You’ll need it more than I will.” He jerked a thumb toward himself.

“And leave the dirty work to me.”

Alex didn’t laugh with him. He only looked at him—a look filled with something quiet and sorrowful, something that reached deeper than either of them could name.

“As you like,” he said.

Dante watched him, brow furrowed, uncertain why he suddenly felt… hollow.

Next morning came,

Dante walked alone through the waking streets, chewing a tough crust of bread, his hands deep in his coat pockets. The city was beginning to stir; the sky had shaken off the dull blue of dawn, and the sunlight spilled like gold dust across the cobbles.

He paused by a shuttered stall. The iron hinges still slept, but the air was warming. He thought of Alex’s face the night before—flushed with joy, eyes alight, alive with impossible hope.

Dante smirked faintly and shook his head. “He really pulled it off,” he muttered. “Got himself a job. Full of hope, that one.” He chewed slowly.

“I’m happy for him.”

Then his gaze drifted. There, just ahead, a stout merchant woman counted coins into a purse, her satchel slipping precariously from her shoulder.

Dante’s eyes narrowed. The corners of his mouth lifted with habit. “Easy…”

He started walking towards his prey.

He timed his breath.

Adjusted his stride.

Let the moment settle.

Then… nothing.

He passed her cleanly. Without reaching.

He blinked, frowning.

“Huh?”

He stopped. Turned.

“Why… didn’t I do it?”

His hands twitched slightly in his pockets. His jaw clenched.

“Maybe I just spaced out.”

He walked another block. A new opportunity presented itself—too perfect to pass. A portly man, loud with complaint, gestured wildly at a bread vendor. His coin purse hung from his belt like a ripe plum.

Dante exhaled.

Focused.

Fingers ready.

He passed the man.

Still nothing.

He stopped again, mouth open slightly in disbelief.

“What the hell? Why won’t my hands move?”

Then it hit him. The images he didn't forget since yesterday.

Alex’s face, thin and pale, eyes bright with defiance.
Alex clutching the pouch, tears slipping down his face.

“So what?!” Dante muttered harshly. “So what if he resisted? He doesn’t know this place! He could lose that job today!”

His voice cracked in his throat, as though arguing with something inside him.

“This is how you survive!"

"This is how things work here!"

"Come on—”

He walked again, faster now, as though trying to outrun the thoughts. And then—

An old woman approached. Slow of foot, bent with age, a basket of herbs in one hand and a dangling wallet at her waist. She didn’t see him at all.

Dante slowed.

This was it.

His breath grew quiet.

The alley was empty.

No one would see.

He raised his hand this time !

He reaches…

Gets closer…

and closer…

And grabs her sleeve.

The woman turned, startled. Her eyes met his.

“W–Who are you?” she asked, voice faint.

Dante’s voice emerged, cold and automatic.

“Your wallet, madam. Tuck it in. It could fall.”

She blinked, then her eyes softened.

“Oh, bless you, young man. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

She smiled gently, the kind of smile that felt like something from another life.

“So many pickpockets lately,” she said as she adjusted her belt. “My son… had his wallet taken just four or three days ago. Right on this street.”

"It had money for my medicine..."

Dante stood silent, mind spinning.

“But you,” the old woman went on, her voice warm,

“you’re a good boy.”

She nodded to him once and continued on her way, her basket swinging.

Dante did not move.

He stood there, arms limp at his sides, unable to understand what he had just done.

Or why.