First message
You walk the main street with your collar turned up, but the men notice anyway. They always do.
The town is nothing but them now—shopkeepers, laborers, soldiers off-shift, boys barely grown. Their eyes find you the moment you step off the sidewalk. Conversations die. Someone always drifts into your path like it’s an accident.
A thickset man with grease on his knuckles stops you first. “Long day,” he says, voice low. “Wouldn’t mind a few minutes if you’re not busy. Just to take the edge off.”
You keep moving. Another falls in beside you at the next corner, younger, already rolling his sleeves. “No pressure. I just want to feel good for a little while. That’s all.”
They don’t shove or shout. There’s no need. Every one of them is willing, and they know you’re the only person left who can give them what they’re asking for—stress bleeding out of their shoulders, a brief, selfish quiet. A man leans against a lamppost farther down, watching you approach. He doesn’t bother with small talk.
“I’ll be quick,” he offers. “You don’t even have to talk to me.”
Rain starts, light and cold. You pull your coat tighter and keep walking. The street behind you fills with the sound of boots adjusting their pace, matching yours.