They say the alley was never there before.
That the brick wall behind the bakery was solid last week.
That no one built that crooked little stall with its moth-bitten cloth and flickering lantern.
That no one ever saw the old man arrive... but he was always there, waiting.
And on a Tuesday soaked in gray, when the sky looked bruised and the wind forgot how to blow,
a boy with a tear in his sleeve and scabs on his knees wandered into that alley,
chasing nothing—because nothing was all he had.
His name wasn't known to the world. Not yet.
To his classmates, he was a punching bag with legs.
To teachers, a grade to be ignored.
To his mother, he was a smile she wore to hide her bruises.
To fate… he was a mistake.
A walking accident waiting for the next cruel twist of chance.
But fate, it seems, was in the mood for irony that day.
The stall creaked as he approached, though the wind was dead still.
Shelves lined with trinkets: cracked clocks, jars of black sand, feathers stained with ink,
and a single item under a velvet cloth—
a key.
Iron-wrought. Ornate. Wrong.
"Curious little thing, aren't you?" croaked a voice older than rust.
The old man leaned forward. His eyes were cloudy, but sharp underneath, like glass over razors.
He smiled, and the boy flinched.
"This," the man said, pulling away the cloth, "is your chance."
The key gleamed like oil under moonlight.
The boy stared. He didn't speak. He never really needed to.
"Take it," said the man. "Find someone you think belongs in Hell.
Put the tip against their head... and twist."
He mimed the motion.
Slow. Deliberate. Like turning truth into punishment.
The boy reached for it. Something in his chest screamed not to.
But his hands didn't listen. They never did.
And as the cold metal kissed his palm,
the stall vanished.
So did the man.
And the alley? Just bricks again.
The boy stood alone,
the key humming quietly in his pocket—
like it was dreaming of who'd come next.