Cold didn’t know his age, let alone his birthday. Time was a meaningless concept in the harsh world of the streets. He was simply Cold, a name given to him by a child long forgotten. His body bore the scars of countless winters, his spirit weathered by the relentless storms of life.
Today, the wind was particularly biting, a cruel reminder of the world’s indifference. He huddled in a discarded cardboard box, his breath misting in the cold air. His ribs were visible through his thin coat, a stark testament to the scarcity of food. It was his birthday, he imagined. A day marked by joy, by celebration, by the warmth of a loving home. But for Cold, it was just another day of survival.
He remembered fragments of a past life, a warm house, the soft touch of human hands. But those memories were like fading photographs, blurred at the edges. Now, he was alone, a solitary figure in a bustling city. He watched as people hurried past, their faces etched with indifference. He was invisible, a shadow in their world.
As the sun began its descent, casting long, mournful shadows, Cold let out a low whine. It was a sound filled with loneliness, with a longing for something he couldn’t name. He dreamed of a warm hearth, a soft bed, and the comforting presence of a human companion. But these were mere fantasies, illusions to escape the harsh reality of his existence.
With a heavy heart, he curled up tighter in his cardboard box. The city was a cacophony of noise, but to him, it was a deafening silence. He was alone, cold, and hungry, a solitary soul adrift in a world that offered little but indifference. As sleep claimed him, he clung to the faint hope that tomorrow would be different, that perhaps, just perhaps, kindness would find him. But deep down, he knew it was a foolish dream, a flicker of hope in the endless night of his existence.
