Drakan

Sashana lived where the stones never forgot footsteps -on the cold, uneven streets of Kantar, where life moved around her but rarely stopped.

She could not see the faces that passed her, but she learned them anyway. In the rhythm of boots against cobblestone. In the hesitation -or lack of it- before someone dropped a coin into her cup. In the silence when they didn’t.

Her world was sound, and hunger, and waiting.

Each morning, she woke curled beneath the weight of an old, oversized cloak that smelled of rain and dust. It swallowed her whole, its frayed edges dragging along the ground as she moved. It was the only thing she owned, the only thing that kept the chill from settling into her bones too quickly.

She would find her place by memory -twelve steps from the bakery that always smelled like warm bread she would never taste, five steps from the cracked fountain that no longer ran. Then she would sit.

And wait.

Her hand would lift, trembling, holding out a small, dented cup.

“Please…” she would whisper, her voice worn thin with use. “Anything helps.”

Sometimes coins would fall in -light, hollow sounds that brought a flicker of relief. More often, there was nothing but the wind brushing past her fingers like a cruel imitation of kindness.

By midday, her arm would ache. By evening, it would feel like stone.

Still, she held it out.

Because there was no other way.

People rarely spoke to her. To most, she was part of the street itself -like the broken stones or the scattered trash. Something to step around. Something to ignore.

But she heard them.

“Don’t look at her.” “She’s cursed.” “Probably not even blind. Just another trick.”

The words didn’t sting the way they used to. Not anymore. Pain dulled with time, just like everything else.

Hunger didn’t.

At night, the city changed.

The laughter faded. The crowds thinned. The air grew colder, sharper, creeping beneath her cloak like fingers that wouldn’t let go. She would curl into herself, clutching her empty cup to her chest as if it could somehow keep her warm.

And in the dark, when her hood cast her face into deeper shadow, people began to notice her in a different way.

They slowed.

They whispered.

From a distance, she became something else -something unearthly. A still figure wrapped in darkness, unmoving, silent.

“The angel of death,” someone once muttered as they passed.

The name lingered.

If only they knew.

There was no scythe in her hands. No power. No mercy to give or take.

Only a cup.

A small, dented cup that held the weight of her survival -and, more often than not, nothing at all.

And still, when morning came, Sashana would rise.

She would find her place.

Lift her trembling hand.

And ask the world, once again, to remember she was alive.

...

Morning came slowly, like it wasn’t sure she was worth waking.

The cold had settled deep into Sashana’s bones overnight, stiffening her limbs, making even the smallest movement feel borrowed. Still, she pushed herself upright, clutching her cup as she made her careful way back to her place -twelve steps from the scent of bread, five from the broken fountain.

She sat.

Lifted her hand.

Waited.

The city stirred to life around her -voices, wheels, footsteps, the distant call of vendors. Familiar. Distant. Unconcerned.

Then-

A pause.

Footsteps slowed in front of her.

Not the usual hurried kind. Not the reluctant shuffle of someone tossing a pity coin. These steps stopped… completely.

Sashana’s breath caught. Her fingers tightened slightly around the rim of her cup.

For a moment, there was nothing.

Then something dropped inside.

Not a coin.

Not even a handful.

It landed with a soft, heavy thud that pulled her arm down with it.

The stranger said nothing.

No blessing. No insult. No lingering presence.

Just footsteps… walking away.

Sashana sat frozen, her heart beginning to pound as if it, too, had felt the weight.

Slowly -carefully- she lowered the cup into her lap.

Her trembling fingers slipped inside.

Cloth.

Rough, tied at the top.

A small sack.

Her breath hitched.

“No…” she whispered, as if denying it might make it less cruel if it wasn’t real.

Her fingers fumbled with the knot, loosening it just enough to slip inside.

Cold metal met her skin.

One coin.

Two.

Three-

Too many.

Far too many.

Her hands began to shake.

The cup slipped from her grasp, forgotten as she clutched the sack instead, pressing it against her chest like it might disappear if she let go.

Tears came before she could stop them -silent at first, then breaking free in uneven breaths that trembled through her whole body.

Not one coin.

Not survival for a day.

But time.

Whoever it was… they hadn’t just seen her.

They had understood.

“I… thank you…” she whispered into the empty air, her voice cracking, too late for anyone to hear. “Thank you…”

She didn’t wait.

For the first time in longer than she could remember, Sashana stood before the day had worn her down.

She followed the scent she knew so well -the warm, aching sweetness of fresh bread -until she reached the shop. Her steps faltered at the threshold, unused to entering, to choosing instead of begging.

Coins clinked softly as she offered them, her hands still shaking.

“Bread rolls… please,” she murmured.

When they were placed in her hands -warm, real, hers- she nearly broke all over again.

She didn’t wait for shelter or comfort.

Right there, just outside, she sank to the ground and tore into one, hunger overtaking everything else. The bread was soft, fresh -nothing like the stale scraps the owner sometimes threw out. It melted on her tongue, and for a moment, the world felt… gentle.

She ate slowly after that.

Carefully.

As if rushing might wake her from it.

Water came next -cool, clean, filling her canteen until it sloshed softly with every step. She drank deeply, greedily at first, then steadier, letting it soothe the dryness in her throat that had become so normal she’d forgotten what relief felt like.

Then, cruelty met her once again.

"Gimme that!"

"HEY!" She screamed and fought with a stranger. Though, he easily overpowered her. Snatching away what little she had.

"NO!"

She clung to his leg, scrawny, just like hers. He struck, once, twice, but she refused to let go. Her nails dug into his ankle, sharp as claws.

"GET OFF!" He shouted, and struck again.

Until there was nothing left of her strength...