Ashes of the Abyss

Life is made up of strange highs and lows. And no, I'm not talking about great accomplishments or epic disasters. I'm talking about those little waves that make you believe, even for just a moment, that things might finally be going in the right direction.

After that evening with the fish soup, the weeks that followed were… strange. Strangely positive. I don't want to exaggerate, mind you: for someone like me, "positive" simply meant I wasn't risking my life every day and could put something in my stomach without having to run or lie. In other words, a miracle.

And the miracle came in the form of a job. A real job, with a boss and a wage (miserable, but still a wage). It wasn't much, but it was a start. I worked at a small tavern on the outskirts of town called "The Fish and the Tankard." An uninspired name, sounding like it came from the mouth of a drunken innkeeper, but for me, that shaky shack was a marble palace.

The tavern was a small, poorly lit place with crooked tables and a door that creaked every time it opened. Inside, the floor was covered in a mix of straw, dirt, and, I suspected, food scraps from weeks ago. The smell was a blend of stale beer, burnt grease, and rotting wood. But, you know, when you've lived in the sewers, you stop being picky.

The owner was a fat, sweaty man in his fifties. I don't remember his name—perhaps I never knew it—but I do remember his smell. A lethal mix of onions, sour beer, and sweat that hit you like a punch every time you came within a meter of him. And mind you, this is coming from someone who lived in drainage tunnels. If even I found his odor unbearable, you can imagine how bad it was.

He wasn't a particularly friendly man. Not cruel, but certainly not someone who wasted smiles or compliments. He was pragmatic: he'd give you a job if you could do it and kick you out if you couldn't.

The Fish and the Tankard had found a way to survive: offering a delivery service for local workers. Every morning, customers would bring an empty basket to the tavern, and we would fill it with whatever the old man had to offer: dried sausages, bread, cheese, and, if they were lucky, a piece of jerky or a half-rotten apple. By lunchtime, those baskets would be delivered to their workplaces. It was simple, it worked, and it earned the old man a tidy profit.

I was one of five boys hired to make the deliveries. We were all the same: kids with little experience and even fewer prospects, but desperate enough to take any job. Each morning, the old man handed out the baskets, muttered his usual "Don't mess this up," and sent us off, loaded with food and responsibilities.

My first day was a disaster, of course.

The streets all looked the same—a tangle of alleys and courtyards filled with barrels and laundry lines. By my second delivery, I was already lost, wandering in circles for an hour. When I finally found the recipient—a soot-covered blacksmith—he scowled at me.

"You're late," he said, snatching the basket from my hands.

I didn't apologize, but I left quickly, hoping he wouldn't chase me with one of his hammers.

When I returned to the tavern, the sun was already setting. My hands were empty, my stomach was too, and my legs ached. The old man stared at me for a long moment, wiping sweat from his forehead with a dirty rag. Then he shook his head and said, "Do better tomorrow. If not, go back to stealing."

There was no threat in his voice, just a cold statement of fact. And, reader, that's what struck me the most: the old man knew exactly who I was, where I came from, and what awaited me if I failed. And I realized that, no matter how unpleasant the job was, it was my only way out.

The next day went better. Not great, but better. I began to figure out which routes to avoid—the crowded ones and the dangerous ones. I learned to recognize which customers tipped (rare) and which complained about every little delay.

There was the carpenter, who waited every day with his arms crossed, glaring at me as if deciding whether to toss me into his next batch of lumber. There was the fabric merchant, who gave an extra coin if the basket arrived intact. And then there was the miller, who always greeted me with a toothless smile and a comment about how skinny I was.

It wasn't an easy job, but there was a strange dignity in doing it. I woke up each morning knowing I had something to do—something that, no matter how insignificant, made me feel part of something bigger. Maybe it was just an illusion, but it gave me hope.

The Fish and the Tankard would never make me rich, nor change my destiny. But, for a while, it made me feel… normal. And, reader, I assure you, for a boy who grew up in the sewers, there's nothing more extraordinary than normality.

It was strange to wake up without thinking about who to rob or who to run from. It was strange to come home with sore feet and an empty mind, but with a coin in my pocket and a guaranteed dinner.

Things continued to improve, little by little. I'm not saying my life had become perfect, but, for the first time, it seemed to be heading in the right direction.

Each day at "The Fish and the Tankard," I became better, faster. I started to get to know the customers, their faces, their habits. Some even began to trust me, offering small jobs outside of deliveries: delivering a package to the market, taking a message to another neighborhood, helping carry something heavy.

Not everyone paid in coins—actually, almost no one did. But I didn't care. They gave me things of equal value: old clothes, dented pots, tattered blankets. And every time I returned to the sewers with those small treasures, it felt like bringing home a precious haul.

Each time I came back, my companions greeted me with the same scene: they'd gather around, curious to see what I'd brought. Not because they wanted it for themselves—it wasn't greed or envy. It was pure curiosity. These were moments of life, something to break the monotony of their existence.

"What do you have this time, Rin?" Milo would ask, with his theatrical tone, as if announcing the start of a show.

"Don't get too excited," I'd reply, pulling out one item at a time, trying to draw out the suspense.

When I pulled out an almost complete set of pots—dented, sure, but still usable—Milo burst into laughter. "Sara! Sara, come see! The boy's brought you an entire wedding trousseau!"

One day, during one of my deliveries, a customer gave me an old dress. It wasn't anything special—a simple, faded dress with a few loose seams—but it was still intact, and the fabric was softer than anything I'd ever felt. I took it without thinking much, but on my way back to the sewers, someone came to mind.

Grillo's little sister.

She was a tiny girl, as thin as a stick, with big dark eyes that always seemed to be asking something, even when she didn't speak. She hardly ever said anything, but she hovered around us like a shadow, always careful not to disturb. When there was food to share, she waited for everyone else to take their share before approaching. I didn't know her name. We just called her "the little one," and she never complained. She didn't have a loud enough voice to make herself heard, and maybe she'd stopped trying.

When I pulled out the dress and showed it to Grillo, his eyes widened.

"For her," I said, trying not to make too much of a scene. "It's not new, but it's… nice."

Grillo stared at me, then at the dress. He took it slowly, almost painfully. He turned it over in his hands, studying it, as if unsure it was real. Then he looked at his sister. She was right next to him, motionless, with an expression of disbelief, as if she had never seen anything like it.

"What do you think? Want to try it on?" he asked her, his voice gentler than I'd ever heard it.

She nodded timidly but hesitated. Sara took her hand, smiling slightly. "Come on, I'll help you."

When the little girl returned, wearing that dress, everyone stopped. It was too big for her—the hem almost reached her ankles, and one seam seemed about to give. But, for the first time, she didn't look like just a survivor. She looked like a real child. A child who shouldn't have to worry about what to eat or where to sleep.

Sara knelt to adjust the hem, but no one said a word. Grillo lowered his gaze and ran a hand over his eyes. He didn't speak, but he didn't need to.