The market square smelled of damp stone, soil, and fresh bread. Vendors lifted canvas awnings, dragged wooden crates into place, and arranged vegetables still shining with dew. Voices mingled with the scrape of carts and the rhythm of bargaining—life measured out in pounds and pennies.
Through the bustle wandered a barefoot boy, his jeans wet to the knees, dark hair stuck to his forehead. He was five, maybe six, with wide, solemn eyes that didn’t belong to someone so young.
His name was Lucas, though few people used it. In small towns, stories travel quickly—but the names of children without families fade just as fast.
No one knew exactly where he had come from. One evening he had simply appeared beneath a torn awning near the square. He didn’t cry. He didn’t beg. Since then, he survived on what chance offered—a crust of bread, a bruised apple, a coin for carrying a basket. Mostly, Lucas watched. As if watching were his way of hoping.