Dark gray clouds hung low in the sky, providing little room for the world and its things. Some buildings' tops poked through the clouds to the sunshine up above, but below, the air was thick and still, as if it was all crammed together, as if there was no space to move. Gray. Everything was gray. Rain pattered the pavement softly; ghostly echoes of the children's feet that slapped against the cement on the warm, summer days could be heard; ringing laughter whispered faintly from the shadows of memory.
Cars on unseen roads nearby could be heard, honking, in the distance. The sounds of the bustling London streets on a gloomy Sunday morning meshed together. Shouts of angry drivers in a hurry, the wails of an upset child, an old man begging for food, the clink of a coin hitting the ground as a woman hurriedly pulls a handful of change from her pocket to pay for her morning coffee, children playing dodge ball in an alleyway, dogs barking, someone two blocks down who has their radio blasting the local rock station.
The sweet aroma of the bakery just around the corner, heavy on the air, was irresistibly alluring. Apple cinnamon pastries, blueberry muffins, Danish crème pastries. Or almond pecan coffee cake, sticky buns, chocolate and almond croissants, golden raisin scones. One could hardly resist the temptation to hurdle down the block and buy everything at the counter.
A teenage boy stood alone at the station. Wet from the early morning rain, his soot black hair drooped, matted to his head; for once it looked remotely calm. He took off his circular black glasses and attempted to dry them on his soaking sweater, and, failing, replaced them, pushed a few strands of hair from his eyes, and returned his gaze to the street. From the shadows, he watched all the people, protected by umbrellas, as they gave their young ones good-bye hugs and kisses, then scurried off to work. 'Like rats,' he thought, 'rats in a maze.' He smirked and chuckled quietly, then dug his hands deep into his pockets, as if searching for something.
"Hey, kid," he shouted, across the street. There, on the opposite sidewalk, under a restaurant overhang, stood a small boy, barely seven, at best guess. The boy looked up, and, upon seeing the teenager that had called to him, shrunk back a step.
"I won't hurt you. I don't bite!" he called back to the kid, in a second attempt. The boy reluctantly took a step forward, light and slow, catlike, just in case he had to pull back and run. But, seeing that the black haired boy who had called him over didn't make a move, he crossed the street, in a hesitant sprint. Within a few seconds, the small boy was standing directly in front of the other one.
"What's your name?" he asked the little boy.
"Ralph."
"Well Ralph, I think today is your lucky day." He smiled widely and pulled his right hand from his pocket with what he had been looking for. Kneeling down so that he was as tall as Ralph, he stared straight into his pale blue eyes. He recognized the look in those eyes; defeat. He knew what that kid was going through, and could almost feel his pain; the loneliness, the knowledge that he had no one, that there would never be anyone who cared. He took Ralph's tiny hand and placed in it a crisp, twenty-pound note and a few spare coins. He looked back up and saw the thin, pale face light up with delight. Before he knew it, Ralph had thrown his arms around his neck and was crying into his shoulder.
"Thank you mister! Gosh! Thanks so much!"
"You're welcome. But there's one thing I'd like you to do." He nodded to Ralph, then to the corner. "Run over there and get yourself a big sticky bun from the bakery." Ralph nodded his head vigorously, the huge grin plastered on his face, his eyes sparkling with tears of joy. And in a flash, he was gone.
The black haired boy grinned at Ralph's small, rag covered back retreating from his view, for the first time thankful of the small things he had. For a fleeting moment, his emerald eyes, too, had sparkled; as if there really was some good in the world.