Warmth

A short story by

@weepingbrook

The cold was a living thing now. It wrapped around me like a second skin, clawing deep into bone and thoughts. It wasn’t just the air; it was everywhere, in everything. It whispered against me when I moved, crept into my lungs when I breathed, sank into the hollow space where hunger lived.

I hadn’t eaten in days. It had long since stopped feeling sharp and stabbing. It was dull now, a heavy ache dragging behind my ribs. It slowed my steps and blurred my thoughts until every breath felt like it cost something, until every blink seemed to take effort I no longer had.

The city loomed around me like a beast made of stone and metal, all teeth and indifference. I wandered its alleys and gutters, its forgotten corners, but the city did not want me. It never had.

People recoiled when they saw me. Shouted. Sometimes an attempted kick. I learned to move quietly, to vanish into shadows before they noticed. But sometimes, I was too slow. One woman hit me with her umbrella, hard, shrieking as if my very existence offended her. I limped for a day after that. Another man spat at me and muttered something I didn’t understand, but the hate in his eyes was bright, sharp, and needed no translation.

Still, not everyone was cruel.

Once, a boy dropped a crust of bread behind a dumpster. He didn’t look at me, but his eyes darted left and right as if kindness were a crime. I waited until he was gone before I dared to take it. Another time, someone (maybe the same child) left a scrap of meat just inside an alley, greasy and glistening under a flickering light. I devoured it before I could think, before I could wonder if it was a mistake.

Kindness was rare, but it existed. It had to. Otherwise, what was the point of crawling through this frozen, hostile world at all?

The nights were the worst. The city never slept, but the warmth of its heartbeat never reached me. I would curl beneath rusted pipes, behind bins, under broken cardboard, searching for even a breath of heat. I’d lie there for hours, eyes half-closed, listening to the hum of machines and the muffled life of people above me, laughing, moving, living.

Tonight, the snow fell in fine, silent sheets. My legs shook beneath me, and I stumbled more than walked. I was bleeding in places where the skin had split and left faint marks in the powder behind me. Every few steps, I had to stop and breathe, the cold biting harder each time. Relentless. 

Then I smelled it.

Warm food. Fresh. Close.

It hit me like a shock. My body tensed, instincts flaring awake. I lifted my head, sniffed again. Meat. Bread. Something rich and heavy. I followed the scent through the maze of alleys, through broken stone and shadow, through a narrow gap in a crumbling wall. My pulse raced faster with each step.

Inside, the air was still. The wind died the moment I crossed the threshold, and for the first time in days, I felt shelter. A small room, dimly lit by a single flickering bulb, sheltered from the storm outside. In the corner sat a shallow dish piled high with food: bits of meat, soft bread soaked in something fragrant. Steam rose from it like a dream.

I paused. My heart thundered. There was no sound, no movement, no threat I could see. Something in me hesitated because the world had never given without taking.

I was too hungry to question what a mirage.  

I crept closer until the smell overwhelmed me. I couldn’t stop myself. I devoured all. My mouth full, heart hammering, tears blurring my vision. I barely chewed. I barely breathed. Each bite felt like life returning. Like maybe I could make it through one more night. I ate until I couldn’t. I had forgotten this feeling. 

It was bliss, and I felt a moment of hope, and remembered sharing food with my many siblings, a long time ago. 

Then came the pain.

It started in my stomach; a hot, twisting coil that clamped down and refused to let go. My limbs went stiff. My head spun. The room tilted. I tried to move, but my body betrayed me, collapsing onto the cold stone floor. Breath came in short, panicked gasps. My nails scraped weakly against the ground.

I’d been so sure this was kindness, but in my hunger, did not question as I should have. 

My eyes drifted toward the dish. It sat there innocently, gleaming under the dim light. But it hadn’t been left by accident. It hadn’t been forgotten. 

My vision blurred as the world narrowed. The sound of the wind outside faded. In the corner of my eye, I saw movement in the shadows. A shape, tall, deliberate, stepped closer. Boots scuffed against the floor. A gloved hand reached down, picked up the empty dish, and lingered for a moment, as if inspecting me. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t even muster a whimper. Just watched.

The figure straightened, turned, and disappeared into the dark again, taking the warmth with it.

I lay there, body failing, the taste of food still on my tongue. It should have been comfort. It should have been life. Instead, it was the last thing I would ever feel.

No one would mourn me. No one ever had.

Above me, the city kept on—loud and bright and uncaring. Somewhere, people laughed in their lit rooms. Somewhere, a child pressed close to their mother, safe and warm. Somewhere, kindness still existed, though not here, not for me. I was a pest, and thinking anything else was a fantasy. 

The cold crept back in, curling over me like a shroud. My breath came slower, shallower. The light from the bulb flickered once, twice, and then steadied, pale and indifferent.

When they found what was left of me later, a small, curled body with a long, hairless tail, they wouldn’t think twice.

Just a rat.

Nothing more.

Follow Sara - @weepingbrook