He sat on a low wall near the entrance, head bowed, shoulders hunched against the morning chill. His clothes were thin. His shoes split at the sides. Dried blood sat at his temple, badly cleaned. His left hand trembled as he tore bread with fingers that didn’t quite cooperate.
People passed him without seeing. A woman stepped wide. A man muttered about beggars and kept walking.
Tenna felt the familiar pull in her chest—the one she usually ignored because kindness was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
She stopped anyway.
“Good morning,” she said softly.
He looked up, startled, eyes dark and alert despite exhaustion. He nodded once. “Morning.”
Tenna was early. She reached into her bag and pulled out wrapped bread she had saved from breakfast and a small bottle of water. She offered them without ceremony.
He hesitated. Pride flickered, then faded.
“Thank you,” he said.
She watched him eat carefully, as if rationing each bite. She noticed the way his gaze tracked people—not hungrily, but attentively, like he was studying the world from a distance.
“Your head,” she said gently, pointing.
He touched the wound. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s something,” she replied, firmer than she meant to be.
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