Three-Legged Chair

1. Them

It was a cold Sunday afternoon. The sun hid behind clouds, and the world lay buried in fog.

In a small room, old plastic chairs-some worn, some barely standing-were arranged in a circle. The scent of instant coffee and weak tea clung to the air, mingling faintly with the smell of home-baked cookies. An old man had brought them in-said he'd taken up baking recently. No one ever ate them, except his old dog, who'd eat anything. He lived alone now. His wife had passed, and they'd never had children-or so he said. She used to bake for him.

An old woman with a wavering smile asked everyone to share something that made them smile that week.

"Well," said Rue, a boy with soft black hair (probably dyed) and tired blue eyes, "I dropped a glass and apologized to my mom... scared she might beat me. But she wasn't there. It's been four years. Still- I laughed so hard, I almost woke up my cat."

He wore a grey oversized hoodie, sleeves swallowing his hands, legs curled tightly to his chest. His voice was soft-almost childlike.

No one laughed.

It was meant to be funny.

But the room grew still. Stifling.

Across the circle sat Moss. Brown hair, hazel eyes, plain black sweatshirt. He'd been fiddling with the hem the entire time, head low. It was his first day in group counseling. First time trying anything like this. He hadn't come for healing-or pity. He just wanted to listen. Maybe the stories would help him face his own. Or maybe not.

What's the worst that could happen? he had thought.

Then Rue looked at him. And smiled.

Moss laughed-softly. Not because it was funny, but because... how could someone say something so dark in that tone and not even flinch?

When it was his turn to speak, Moss said nothing.

No one forced him.

The experience wasn't as bad as he'd imagined. But he wasn't planning on coming back.

Or so he thought.

-

The next Sunday, he was back in the same room.

His heater wasn't working, and the cold had seeped through his jacket, through skin and bone. Or maybe-maybe he just wanted to see that strange boy again.

But Rue wasn't there.

Disappointed, Moss sipped his coffee. It was cold. Bitter. Tasted like burnt-out electric wire. He nearly gagged, but kept drinking. The bitterness lingered on his tongue like a ghost-it made him feel present.

Outside the counseling center, a stray cat hissed and scratched at him when he tried to pet it.

"Babe," said a voice, soft and familiar.

Moss turned. It was Rue.

He looked even paler than last time. The blue in his eyes was duller, sunken. Moss wasn't good with names or faces-he'd moved from town to town too often for that. But Rue, he remembered.

"She doesn't even let me pet her," Rue said, crouching beside the cat. "I just left her for a sec to get her medicine. Forgot it on the counter."

He nodded toward the vet clinic next door.

"You didn't come today?" Moss asked.

"Huh?" Rue finally looked up.

"To the group counseling. You weren't there."

There was a pause. "Babe started throwing up. Had to take her to the vet. She's getting old, the doctor said."

He hesitated, then added, "Sorry... oversharing."

Rue stood, brushing off his hands. "Also, that was my first time. I wasn't gonna come back. It smelled like old socks."

Silence.

"Is her name Babe?" Moss asked.

Rue nodded, lifting the one-eyed cat gently. He'd found her in an alley after his mom's funeral. She reminded him of himself. Abandoned and hurting.

"Wanna pet her?"

"Can I?"

Rue nodded again, offering her carefully, like she might shatter.

Moss reached out and touched the cat like a child learning softness for the first time.

-

"Why are you following me?" Rue asked as they walked.

"I'm not. I live around here too."

"I was joking."

"Huh?"

"I go left from here. Two blocks, then my house."

"I'll keep walking."

"Aren't you afraid I am following you?" Moss asked. "Why'd you tell me where you live?"

Rue shrugged. "Hmm. You could just kidnap me and lock me in your basement. Just don't feed me cucumbers."

Moss blinked. Rue didn't laugh. Maybe it wasn't entirely a joke.

"You're weird."

"I know."

There was another pause.

"You coming this Sunday?" Moss asked-then regretted it.

"Do you want me to?" Rue asked, but didn't wait for an answer.
"I'll be there. For the free coffee that tastes like regret and gossip."

They didn't know it then, but this wouldn't be their last conversation.