Having not had food since the previous day, the final crumpled dollar in her coat pocket could scarcely procure her tranquility—yet she presented it to the cashier with a subdued grin.
“For him,” she remarked, gesturing towards the man outside who had made no requests. The morning was frigid, and the wind traversed the small alleys of Chicago like a spectre, penetrating coats and skin, chilling the bones of those who remained stationary. Clara secured the deteriorating scarf over her neck, her fingers quivering from more than merely the chill. Hunger rendered one’s hands devoid of substance, as if they lacked purpose without sustenance to grasp. She stood at the intersection of 49th and Pulaski, gazing at the sign of a little convenience shop that continued to display its flickering “Open” light despite the late hour. The morning congestion had not yet commenced. The streets were predominantly tranquil, interrupted only by the sporadic cough of an ageing vehicle attempting to ignite, or the distant rumble of a train. Her stomach tightened as she recounted the cash in her palm. Seventy cents. She retrieved the solitary dollar cash from her coat pocket that she had been conserving. It was frayed from use, almost ripping at the edges. She intended to utilise it for coffee later—perhaps sufficient for a muffin if she smiled at the cashier appropriately. Upon entering the cosy shop, the chime of the doorbell scarcely concealed the faint cough emanating from outside. He was present—seated by the window on a milk crate, arms crossed across his chest, knees drawn in. A Black man, likely in his fifties, with a beard interspersed with grey. His eyes were shut, not in slumber, but in a manner that indicated anticipation. Of knowledge. He did not request financial assistance. He did not possess a sign. He was not boisterous. However, the manner in which he sat—motionless and undetectable—penetrated the numbness in Clara’s consciousness. She approached the counter directly, her heartbeat more pronounced than her footfall. “Do you possess any of those sandwiches remaining?” she enquired. The cashier, a weary woman with eyes that had endured many winters, gestured towards the small hot shelf. “Turkey, egg, and cheese,” she stated. “Four dollars.” Clara paused, glancing at the coins. She placed the dollar on the counter, accumulated all the coins, and murmured, “I possess only this.” Could you sell me fifty percent of one? The woman gazed at her, then at the man outside. Her expression became gentler. Silently, she pivoted, seized the sandwich, secured it meticulously, and slipped it across the counter. Clara fluttered her eyelids. “However—” “Accept it.” He appears more aloof than you. She accepted the lunch, murmured her gratitude, and departed without glancing back. The wind outside had intensified, undermining her determination like shattered glass. However, her hands were steady now—they were warmed by the sandwich wrapped in paper. She approached the man, crouched, and extended it towards him. He unveiled his eyes. Dark brown. Unambiguous. “I do not desire charity,” he stated gently. “It is not charity,” Clara responded, her tone more assertive than she anticipated. “It is lunchtime.” I was indebted to you. He regarded her with confusion. “Indebted to me?” She grinned, her lips fissured. “You prevented me from feeling isolated.” He seized the sandwich. Gradually. Softly. As if it were composed of glass. “I am James,” he stated. “Clara.” They remained seated in silence for a few period. No urgency. Two unfamiliar individuals harbouring frostbitten aspirations, sharing a warm sandwich. “I am uncertain about the appearance of tomorrow,” she gradually articulated, her voice just a whisper. “However, today… I suppose this is significant.” James acquiesced. “At times, the present moment is the only reality.” That evening, Clara returned to her shelter bunk with empty pockets and an empty stomach. For the first time in days, her chest felt whole. At that moment, she was unaware that James would alter the course of her life the following day. The following morning arrived with a weighty sky, as though the city had forgotten to inhale. Snow descended gently onto rooftops and streets, transforming corners into icy hazards and benches into frozen memorials for abandoned aspirations. Clara awoke abruptly. As she sat up, her cot in the shelter creaked, and the worn blanket became entangled around her feet. Her stomach rumbled with hunger, more pronounced than the previous day. However, her initial thought was not of sustenance—it was of James. She was unaware of the reason. Perhaps yesterday, at the time she relinquished something she lacked, she experienced a sense of identity once more. Following a brief rinse in the communal restroom and an extended moment of self-reflection in the fractured mirror, she exited into the chill. The intersection of 49th and Pulaski was unusually tranquil. No motion. Only snow accumulating at the curb. The milk crate upon which James had seated remained, although he was absent. She surveyed her surroundings. No indication. Did he exist? Or perhaps one of the transient souls that the city generates and consumes without acknowledgement? She began to depart when she perceived the voice. “You have returned.” She pivoted. James positioned himself behind her—absent a crate or sandwich this time, merely the same frayed coat and fatigued gaze. However, today presented a different circumstance. A glimmer of energy. “I anticipated you would not,” he remarked, advancing. “The majority do not.” Clara beamed. “I owed you a formal expression of gratitude.” He laughed softly. “Are we still engaged in the ‘mutual indebtedness’ arrangement?” She chuckled. “Indeed, we are.” Subsequently, he performed an unusual action. He retrieved a folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket. “I intended to present this to you yesterday, but you departed too swiftly.” She revealed it. A promotional leaflet. Inscribed on a deteriorated typeface: “RE-ENTRY PROGRAM: Emergency Employment Placement, Housing Assistance, and Psychological Support for Individuals Previously Incarcerated.” She gazed upward. “You—?” James acquiesced. Affirmative. I allocated time. 

Several years, in fact. Was released six months ago. It took me three attempts to accept that I would not return. Clara experienced a profound ache in her heart, not from sympathy, but rather from a sense of recognition. “What now?” I am making an effort. I currently volunteer with them. It is unremarkable—merely cleaning and contacting individuals who have ceased attending. However, they provide assistance. They assisted me. He indicated the flyer. “Today is the women’s intake day.” You ought to depart. Clara fluttered her eyelids. “Myself?” He regarded her as if she were the one individual unaware. “You assisted me with your final dollar, Clara.” Do you not believe you merit some assistance as well? The edifice was located three bus stops distant. James settled her fare with coins he said were no longer necessary. She nearly declined—but then recalled the sensation of generosity and the rarity of receiving without embarrassment. The location appeared unremarkable. A dilapidated grey brick community centre including a deteriorating sign and a malfunctioning buzzer. However, there was warmth within. Authentic warmth. The type that originated from those who communicated with you as though you were significant, regardless of whether your narrative was refined or concise. Pamphlets, volunteers, and donated coats and shoes were present. A woman named Martha enquired about Clara’s background through a series of non-intrusive questions, aimed at comprehending her origins and, more significantly, her future aspirations. By lunchtime, Clara had secured a part-time position as a kitchen assistant at a church across town. While not flashy, it provided a modest weekly salary and two daily meals. A location for repose. An actual room. Equipped with a door. Clara remained in the corridor afterward, flier in hand, astonished. James reclined against the wall, observing her silently. “I am at a loss for words,” she murmured. “You already articulated it yesterday.” When you purchased that sandwich for me. Clara faced him. “That was merely lunch.” He exhibited a smile. “Negative.” That represented hope. Several weeks elapsed. Clara commenced her employment—early mornings, dicing vegetables and reacquainting herself with the technique of serviette folding as though it were significant. Her hands were no longer as hollow. Her cheeks are more pronounced. The pain within her was no longer due to hunger, but rather from recollection.

Every Thursday, she would rendezvous with James at the corner once more. Not due to necessity. However, that is the point at which both narratives diverged. At times, hope manifests quietly. Occasionally, it is silent, enveloped in wax paper, transferred from one set of frigid hands to another.