Chapter 2 First steps, cold night

My room was on the third floor, up a staircase that moaned with every step. The key the woman gave me was old, the brass worn smooth by countless hands before mine.

Room 307.

When I pushed open the door, the hinges squealed like a wounded animal. The room was small — a narrow bed with a thin mattress, a single window with a cracked frame, a desk scarred with knife marks and cigarette burns. The radiator in the corner clanged and hissed, struggling to pump warmth into the icy air.

But to me, it might as well have been a palace.

It was mine.

I dropped my suitcase by the bed and sat down heavily, feeling the springs groan under my weight. For a long moment, I simply stared at the faded ceiling, letting the exhaustion sink into my bones.

I should have felt triumphant. I had left everything behind — the hurtful whispers, the condescending glances, the suffocating expectations.

But all I felt was empty.

And afraid.

The city outside roared with life. Here, in this tiny, forgotten room, I felt like a ghost no one could see.

I thought about my family — their disbelief when I packed my things.

"You’ll be back within a week," my father had scoffed, arms crossed, eyes sharp with disappointment.

"Dreams are for fools."

I clenched my fists.

I wouldn’t go back.

Not in a week. Not ever.

No matter how much it hurt, no matter how lonely it got, I would carve a place for myself here — even if it killed me.

The next morning, the sun was a faint silver glow behind the clouds. I bundled myself in my thin jacket and stepped out into the chill. My first goal was simple: find work.

The city didn't owe me anything.

If I wanted to survive, I would have to earn it — one exhausted step at a time.

And so the journey began — a journey not just through unfamiliar streets, but through every fear, every doubt, every wound I carried with me.

This was the cost of chasing a life of my own making.

And I was willing to pay it.

The first day was brutal.

I walked for hours, weaving through crowds that seemed to move faster than my thoughts. Every store I passed had the same sign in the window: "Help Wanted — Experience Required."

Experience.

The one thing I didn’t have.

By noon, my stomach gnawed at itself in protest. I spent my last few coins on a stale sandwich from a street vendor, eating it slowly on a bench while pigeons fought over the crumbs at my feet.

Across the street, I saw a narrow café tucked between a hardware store and a laundromat. The sign read "Willow's Corner." It didn’t look fancy — the paint peeled from the windows, and a hand-written "OPEN" sign swung crookedly on the door.

Desperation pushed me forward.

Inside, the café smelled of burnt coffee and something sweet, like old cinnamon. A woman with tired eyes and ink-stained fingers stood behind the counter, wiping mugs with a faded cloth. She looked up when I entered, her gaze sharp but not unkind.

"Looking for something?" she asked.

I swallowed hard. "A job. Anything."

She studied me for a moment, as if weighing the broken parts I tried to hide.

"You ever wait tables before?" she asked.

I shook my head. "No. But I can learn. I'm a fast learner."

She sighed, tossing the rag aside. "Everyone says that."

I straightened my shoulders. "Give me a chance. One day. You don’t even have to pay me if I mess up."

She raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by my boldness. Then, after a moment, she nodded toward a stack of menus.

"Start by cleaning those. And don't drop anything."

I didn’t even have time to thank her before she turned away, barking orders at a teenage boy balancing three plates in one hand.

Clumsily, I grabbed the menus and got to work, wiping each one with trembling fingers. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t glamorous. But it was something.

It was the first brick laid in the foundation I was trying to build.

As the day dragged on, I realized something:

It wasn’t just about surviving.

It was about enduring — about proving, moment by grueling moment, that I deserved the dream I chased.

When I stumbled back into my tiny room that night, every muscle in my body ached. My hands were raw from washing dishes. My shirt smelled like fryer oil and coffee grounds.

And yet... for the first time since I left home, a tiny flicker of pride burned in my chest.

It wasn't much.

But it was mine.

Tomorrow, I would return to Willow’s Corner.

Tomorrow, I would start again.

And the day after that, and the day after that — until the life I dreamed of was no longer a dream, but my reality.

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