The man's shoes scraped the ground, making uneven sounds as he walked in a tired way. His shoulders were slumped, like something heavy was pushing him down.
Under the weak streetlight, his face looked very tired — his eyes had dark circles, and the skin under them looked like soft, unhealed bruises. The night air stuck to his clothes, and he blinked slowly, like even blinking was hard to do.
He walked like a broken puppet, with legs that moved slowly and unsurely, each one lifting and then stepping down onto the shiny road.
The road ahead was lit in weak, patchy yellow light, blinking like little fires about to go out in old light bulbs. Between the tall, rusty poles, long dark areas stayed still, ready to take him in.
His hand touched the wall beside him sometimes, just to make sure he wasn't dreaming.
A sudden harsh sound broke the quiet — it was loud, high, and very near.
From under a parked dumpster, something moved out of the dark.
The man stopped, his heart pounding hard as a smooth animal came into the dim light. It was a cat, its fur so dark it looked like it was made from shadow.
It curved its back next to his leg and made a loud, thin meow that felt like it went right through him.
Its eyes shone once, then it went under a fence and was gone.
The man pulled back suddenly, moving awkwardly like a kid. His legs moved around in a confused way, and he slipped like a child falling for no reason.
His foot hit the edge of a hole in the road, and he fell backward.
He landed in a small puddle with a soft splash, and water flew out around him as he landed hard on his backside.
For a second, he didn't move. His legs were spread out, and his hands were flat on the wet ground. His mouth was open like he was shocked, and he blinked slowly, like it took him a moment to understand what just happened.
"Crap…" he said quietly, lifting himself up on his elbows as the cold, slimy water soaked into his jeans.
His nose wrinkled, and he stopped breathing for a second when the smell reached him — it was strong, sour, and clearly really bad.
"Now I'm wet... and it smells like crap."
The cat ran off into the dark, its feet making no noise as it disappeared behind some trash bins.
The man stayed sitting, his hands now pushing into his wet pants. He made a face, his fingers tightening on his legs as he moved a little.
A quiet, squishy sound came from where his skin touched the wet jeans, slippery and gross, like oil on smooth glass.
He shut his eyes tight and moved a hand to the back of his pants, making another face as he felt how wet they were.
He made the same face again, grabbing the pants like squeezing them might somehow fix the wetness that had already gotten in.
"It was a black cat..." he said quietly, his voice heavy and unsure, like he was talking to the air, not to someone.
He sat a little longer, looking at the spot where the cat had been.
Then he spoke again, softer now, his eyes moving around. "My grandma said... black cats on the road mean bad luck. You're supposed to stay away from them."
He stopped. "But it just... scared me."
He made a low sound, not just from being tired, and pushed himself up. His hands were slippery on his legs as he stood.
His wet jeans stuck to his skin in wrinkles.
He started walking again, slow and heavy like someone who had given up. One foot went in front of the other.
The water made quiet, squishy sounds each time he moved.
The road in front of him looked just as bad — more broken light, more dark puddles, more quiet.
He kept going, each step taking him closer to home, even though it still felt very far away.
His fingers had trouble at the keyhole, the old doorknob fighting back like a stiff joint that hadn't moved in a long time.
He pushed harder, using his shoulder to help as the door slowly opened with a loud, rough noise like the wood was unhappy.
The paint was chipped away, leaving little sharp bits, and the metal knob was dull with green spots from age.
It wasn't broken down because of no money — it was broken because no one cared and just let it slowly fall apart, pretending it didn't matter.
He walked in, and the door shut behind him with a slow, tired sound.
He took off his shoes without untying them and left them next to each other by the doorway.
His wet socks made a soft sound on the carpet as he walked.
In the living room, the air felt heavy and smelled like old stuff.
A table was bending under lots of empty bottles — some glass, some plastic, a few still had a little flat soda or beer inside.
Crumpled food wrappers were falling off the sides like a pile, their colors faded and greasy.
Plastic meal trays were stacked in a messy pile by the couch, some still had dried-up sauce on them.
Every spot had something on it that didn't fit or belong there.
He breathed in fast and was sorry right away.
The air smelled bad, like the puddle he had fallen into — old, moldy cloth with a sharp, pee-like smell under it.
His face moved as he breathed out quickly and lightly, hoping it would help.
The smell of old food and the heavy wetness of his clothes stuck together like the same memory happening again and again in different places.
He felt for the light switch on the wall and flipped it.
The ceiling light came on weakly, shining a yellow glow that made the room look worse than it did in the dark.
He walked down the small hallway, his steps quiet because clothes were all over the floor, like someone had thrown them there angrily.
In his room, a pile of clothes sat in the corner, looking kind of like a mouth.
Some were folded, but most were messy.
He took off his uniform one piece at a time — unbuttoning it slowly and letting each part drop with a wet sound onto the messy floor.
Then he grabbed an old, stretched-out T-shirt and a worn pair of sweatpants from a chair and put them on.
He gave a small, rough laugh. His voice was quiet and broken because he hadn't talked much lately.
He looked around the room, and he seemed kind of angry.
"It's true," he said quietly, not really talking to anyone. "Life is hard without a wife."
He moved his hand over some shirts on the floor, but didn't try very hard.
Then he let his hand fall. "I'm too tired to clean all this…"
He lay down on the bed, the mattress sinking a little under him with a soft sound.
His back touched the messy sheets, which were still warm from the hot air in the room.
He grabbed the laptop from the table next to the bed — it was gray and made of plastic, with keys that were old and used a lot.
The screen lit up slowly. The edges were broken a bit, and the hinge made a small noise when he opened it.
He put it on his legs, touched the pad to move the mouse, and waited while messages started showing up.
His eyes were barely looking clearly.
Mixed in with the usual junk and unread emails, one message stood out.
The sender didn't have a name — just a bunch of numbers and a weird symbol.
He clicked on it.
A PDF started to open, but it took a while and loaded slowly.
He looked at the first few lines and then stopped.
The mouse pointer hovered over some legal-looking stamps and marks he didn't recognize.
His mother's name was there, printed clearly in black letters next to a huge number: $3,000,000.
He stopped scrolling.
The file looked very neat and too official.
The words "private company" stood out on the side like they were blaming him.
His hand moved by accident.
The laptop fell off his legs. It felt heavy, like a book falling.
It flipped over and hit the floor on one corner.
It made a loud cracking sound.
He didn't try to stop it. He didn't even move his eyes.
His arms hung down. He held his breath.
His eyes were open wide and still.
His mouth was open like he wanted to say something but didn't know what.
"AHHHHH!" he yelled loudly, the sound cutting through the silence like something hitting a wall.
He moved quickly to pick up the dropped device, turning it over with shaking hands.
The screen didn't turn on, and dark cracks showed up along the edges like lines.
"It's broken!" he said, his voice getting high and upset.
"No... that was my only laptop!"
He breathed in a shaky way, holding the broken device tighter.
"And now my mom owes three million dollars? From some unknown person saying they're a private company?"
He fell backward, his back hitting the bed gently.
His arms dropped next to him like they gave up.
His chest went up, then down more slowly each time.
The ceiling above looked fuzzy.
He blinked one time, then again.
His eyes felt tired, and his eyelids started to close like curtains that didn't want to stay open.
His mouth hardly moved as he said the last words, speaking them very quietly and not clearly.
"I have bad luck… all the time…"