Arthur didn't sleep that night. The warmth of his thin blanket did little to fight the creeping cold in his bones. His father hadn't come home, not that it mattered anymore. The man was a ghost even when he was there—silent, angry, and quick to disappear like smoke through a crack.
Arthur lay awake, staring at the cracked ceiling, tracing invisible patterns with his eyes. His mind circled back to the blind girl—Elsa. The way she had clung to his hand without hesitation. The way her voice shook like glass about to break. How strange it felt to be needed by someone, even for just an hour.
Morning came quietly. Grey light crept into the room. His father's room was still locked. The hallway smelled like cigarettes and old grease. He made tea with too much sugar and sipped it slowly, imagining it tasted like something better.
A knock shattered the silence.
Not a casual knock. Firm. Intentional.
Arthur blinked. No one ever knocked on their door—no one wanted to. He got up and moved toward it, quietly, like he might scare it away. He looked through the peephole and saw a shape that nearly made him stumble back.
The blind girl. Elsa. And behind her, the guard from the mayor's house.
Arthur hesitated. The tea in his hand had gone cold.
He opened the door.
"Morning," the guard said without smiling.
Elsa stood beside him, dressed in the same clothes she'd worn yesterday, her posture rigid, lips pressed tight. Her head tilted as if she could sense Arthur's discomfort.
"Uh... hi," Arthur said. He looked at the guard. "What are you doing here?"
The guard stepped forward slightly. "I need a favor."
Arthur blinked. "You... what?"
"We need to talk," he said. "Can we come in?"
Arthur glanced around at the small, dusty living room. Torn cushions, chipped floor tiles, and the lingering smell of fried oil from two nights ago. It wasn't a place for guests.
But he opened the door wider anyway.
Elsa stepped in slowly, guided gently by the guard. She wrinkled her nose slightly, not rudely, but just enough that Arthur noticed.
The guard sat. Elsa didn't. She stood near the center of the room like she didn't know where to go.
"Here," Arthur said, brushing off the only chair without a broken leg. "You can sit."
"Thank you," she whispered.
The guard leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on his knees. "Here's the thing, kid. I've been watching you."
Arthur's stomach tightened. "That's... not creepy at all."
The guard ignored him. "You're decent. That's rare these days. You helped her. You didn't mock her. You didn't use her. You protected her, even though you didn't have to. That means something."
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Is this your weird way of saying thanks?"
"No," the guard said. "It's my weird way of asking for help."
Arthur stared. "Come again?"
The guard motioned to Elsa. "She needs a place to stay."
Arthur laughed. It came out dry and cracked. "You're joking. This is a joke, right?"
"I wish it was," the guard said. "I've been trying to take care of her, but it's not working. She needs more than I can give."
"Then take her to social services or something. Isn't that what people do?"
"Tried. Court didn't grant custody. She has no legal claim to the mayor's estate."
Arthur looked at Elsa. She sat quietly, hands folded in her lap, her expression unreadable. But her body trembled—barely, but enough.
"So let me get this straight," Arthur said. "She lived in the mayor's mansion, her whole life was there, and now she has nothing?"
"The mayor was her grandfather. Her mother was the mayor's daughter. Her father—a gardener. When the mayor found out about the baby, he cut them off. Gave them nothing. But they stayed—barely. Her dad worked for scraps. Then the mayor tried to marry her off to some investor. When her father found out, he burned the mansion to the ground with everyone inside except her. Pulled her out before it was too late. Then killed himself."
Arthur's mouth went dry.
The guard continued. "Since then, it's been court hearing after court hearing. Nothing left. No money. No home. Just her."
Arthur sat down slowly. "And you want me to take care of her?"
"Yes."
"I'm seventeen. I live off twenty bucks and stale bread. I can't take care of myself."
"You're all she's got."
Elsa finally spoke. "I don't want to be a burden. I can leave."
Arthur looked at her. She was trying to be brave. But she looked exhausted. Afraid. Alone.
"You're not a burden," Arthur muttered. "You just... came out of nowhere."
The guard stood up. He pulled a wad of money from his pocket. Counted it out casually. "Here. Four thousand. I left more in the car. Think of it as a thank-you. Or rent. Whatever makes you feel better."
Arthur's eyes widened. "Wait—what? You're just paying me to—?"
The guard shoved the money into his hand, then turned to the door.
"Wait—where are you going?" Arthur asked.
The guard looked back once. "You're a better man than you think, Arthur. Don't let the world convince you otherwise."
He left.
And just like that, Arthur was standing in a silent room with a blind girl, a bundle of money in his hand, and no idea what came next.
Elsa sat quietly. The silence stretched.
"Are you... hungry?" Arthur asked.
She nodded. "A little."
He got up, fumbled in the kitchen, and returned with bread and a few scrambled eggs. She smiled as he handed her the plate.
They ate in silence. Two strangers. Two orphans. Two broken people sitting in a forgotten apartment, beginning something neither of them could name.
That night, Arthur pulled the blanket over the couch for her and made a bed for himself on the floor.
Neither of them spoke.
But for the first time in a long while, Arthur didn't feel completely alone.