The One who Got Away

The Boy Named Zylavore.

  The mirror was cracked, but it still showed too much.

Zylavore wiped the grime from his cheek with the edge of his sleeve, though it only smeared the dirt. The tavern's back room reeked of ale and unwashed bodies, and the only light came from a guttering candle stuck in a bottle. He hadn't meant to fall asleep here. He hadn't meant to wake up here, either.

He straightened his collar with stiff fingers, then froze when he caught his reflection again.

That's not who they wanted. Not who they named. Not what they paid for.

His jaw clenched. He slammed the mirror face-down on the floor. The glass didn't shatter — just rocked back and forth with a soft, pathetic clink.

He pulled on his coat like armor, every button fastened with ceremony. There was no one left to impress, but the ritual helped. It always did.

In the corner, a boy stirred on the floor, curled into himself like a stray. Zylavore didn't remember his name. Didn't want to.

He stepped over him without a word and walked into the cold morning fog, the pouch of stolen gold thudding gently at his side like a guilty heartbeat.

Today, he would find somewhere else to be. Somewhere no one knew what he used to be called.

 The alley stank of piss and vinegar, but at least it was quiet. Zylavore moved through the shadows like he belonged in them, head down, hands jammed into his coat pockets. Every step felt like it echoed too loudly.

A beggar stirred near a barrel fire, coughing hard.
"Spare a coin, pretty one?"

Zylavore didn't stop.
"Earn your own," he muttered.

But halfway past, his foot faltered. He closed his eyes. Zakal would've said something kind.

"Would've given him a blanket and hot tea," Zylavore whispered under his breath. He hated how soft his voice sounded.

He turned the corner, away from the firelight, into deeper shadow. The city always felt like it was pressing down — like the buildings were leaning closer just to watch him squirm.

He pulled the coin pouch from inside his coat. Leather, fraying at the edges. The last thing Zakal ever gave him — or ever could.

"You shouldn't have done it," he whispered to the empty air. "You were the only one who saw me. I should've made it count."

His fingers trembled. He didn't want to cry. Instead, he dropped to a crouch and poured the coins out onto the cobbles in a shining heap.

"All this," he said bitterly, "and I still feel like garbage in silk."

A soft rustle. Someone behind him.

"You always talk to your money?"

Zylavore spun, one hand already on the hilt of his dagger.

A girl stood at the mouth of the alley, hood pushed back, hands raised in peace. Her voice was steady, curious. Not mocking.

"No," he said, forcing the blade back into its sheath. "I talk to ghosts."

She blinked. "And do they talk back?"

Zylavore bent down, scooping the gold back into the pouch with slow, deliberate care. He didn't look up.

"Only the good ones," he said. "The rest just echo."

She was still there.

Not moving. Not speaking.
Just... watching.

The girl in the alley had eyes like mist — unfocused, yet locked on him, like she wasn't looking at him so much as through him.