After days of adjusting to his new identity, Christopher Reed realized that staying confined in the small apartment would get him nowhere. He needed to go out, explore the city, and understand the world he found himself in.
He slowly rose from the bed, walked to the closet, and opened it. Before him lay an old coat, still in good condition. It was his father's coat. He stared at it for a moment, then grabbed it and put it on. It was warm despite its age, as if it still carried traces of his father's presence.
He moved toward the door, placed his hand on the knob, and hesitated briefly. Then he sighed and muttered softly:
"Alright… Time to get acquainted with this city."
He opened the door and stepped out into the streets of the impoverished neighborhood.
The alleys were narrow, the houses old and worn by time. The stone walls bore cracks, and the wooden windows were covered with tattered curtains that barely kept out the cold. The air carried the scent of cheap bread mingled with ash from the simple stoves.
Barefoot children ran around some laughing, others hiding behind barrels scattered in corners. Men sat on doorsteps, whispering in low voices, while women carried buckets of water, returning from the nearby well.
Christopher sighed as he observed it all. Life here was harsh, yet people persisted.
"I need to find a job…" he murmured to himself.
He didn't know where to start, but he figured working at a tavern might be a good opportunity. Taverns weren't just places to drink; they were hubs of information where people gathered and exchanged news. He could listen, learn, and earn some money while doing so.
The alleys were narrow, the houses aged and crumbling. The stone walls bore cracks, and the wooden windows were draped with threadbare curtains that hardly blocked the cold. The air reeked of cheap bread and sweat, mixed with the scent of ash from the rudimentary stoves.
He began walking through the streets, avoiding muddy puddles and ignoring the curious glances from passersby. Minutes later, he found himself standing before an old wooden building that still stood resilient amid the decay. A sign hung on its façade, bearing a name carved in weathered letters:
"The Black Gazelle."
He stared at the name for a moment, then thought:
"This place seems suitable… I'll present myself as someone literate and numerate. That might be enough to get a job here."
He pushed the wooden door slowly, and the sounds of raucous laughter and overlapping conversations reached his ears. Inside, the tavern felt warm compared to the chilly street, the air thick with the smell of burning wood, cheap beer, and heavy spices.
He glanced around quickly. The tables were filled with men in simple clothes some talking loudly, others playing games of chance. In the corner, a musician played a melancholic tune on an old wooden lute.
He approached a long table where an old man stood behind it, wiping cups with a ragged cloth. The man had short white hair and gentle eyes that held a glimmer of wisdom, as if they'd witnessed much of the world. His features hinted at a life weathered by bitterness and nostalgia. He wore a plain robe, yet his aged handsomeness remained evident.
Christopher stopped before him and said steadily:
"Sir, I'm looking for work. I can read and calculate."
The old man raised an eyebrow, smiled faintly, and set the cup aside. He studied the boy before him and said in a calm yet seasoned tone:
"A young boy wanting work in a place like this? What makes you think I need someone who can read and calculate?"
Christopher didn't falter. Keeping his composure, he replied:
"I believe every tavern needs someone to manage accounts, track inventory, and verify sales. I can be useful."
The old man pondered the boy for a moment. Then, without warning, he tossed a small pouch of coins onto the table and said:
"Very well. Prove it."
Christopher raised an eyebrow but understood this was a test. He opened the pouch to find assorted coins inside.
He glanced at the old man, who smiled and said:
"Sort them and tally the total. Don't make a single mistake."
Christopher took a deep breath and began counting. His fingers moved swiftly, his mind precise. In under a minute, he finished the calculation and rearranged the coins on the table.
The old man watched with mild admiration, then chuckled:
"Not bad… Not bad at all."
He reached out, patted the boy's shoulder, and said:
"Welcome to The Black Gazelle, lad. You're hired. What's your name?"
"Christopher Reed," he replied calmly, meeting the old man's gaze.
The old man laughed and patted Christopher's shoulder gently, as if they'd known each other for years.
"Christopher Reed? Good, good…" he said playfully, then added with a grin: "But that's a bit long, don't you think?"
Christopher remained silent, unsure how to respond.
The old man laughed again, nodding as if the matter were settled: "Alright then, I'll call you Chris from now on. No objections, eh?"
Christopher opened his mouth to speak, but the man cut him off.
"Good, good! Little Chris, don't dawdle!" he said, mixing humor and sternness as he handed him a broom and a rag. "Start working! Clean the tables and mop the floor."
Christopher looked at the tools, then at the old man, who watched him with kind eyes.
"Fine, whatever…" Christopher sighed, beginning his work while ignoring his tangled emotions.
—
Working at the tavern wasn't hard, but it was exhausting. The place wasn't in its best state tables coated in a thin layer of dust, floors in need of thorough scrubbing. Christopher grabbed the broom and started sweeping, ignoring the curious stares from patrons sipping their drinks in silence.
The poor neighborhood was filled with people hardened by time, and most tavern patrons were weary men whose faces bore the marks of hardship. Yet the atmosphere in The Black Gazelle was less tense than he'd expected. There were no brawls, no chaos just subdued chatter.
After finishing the floor, he began wiping tables while the old man observed him from behind the counter, polishing a glass with deliberate slowness, as if silently testing him.
"You work hard, little Chris," the old man remarked, setting the glass aside.
Christopher didn't reply but nodded as he continued working.
The old man smiled and asked more seriously: "Tell me, where did you learn to read and calculate? It's uncommon for a boy from the slums."
Christopher paused, then said quietly: "My father hired a tutor for me when I was young."
The old man raised an eyebrow with interest but didn't press further. Instead, he pointed to the tables and said: "Keep working. We'll talk later."
—
Hours passed, and as evening approached, the tavern grew busier. The air filled with tobacco smoke and the stench of alcohol.
Christopher observed silently from behind the counter, studying people's behavior, trying to gather as much information as he could about this world.
The old man sat beside him, wiping another cup, then said softly:
"You know, little Chris, no one works here for free."
Christopher glanced at him warily.
The old man chuckled and tossed him a small pouch. When Christopher caught it, he felt its light weight. Opening it, he found a few copper coins inside.
"Your first day's pay," the old man said, adding with a sly smile: "Don't spend it all in one place."
Christopher stared at the coins in his hand, then tightened the pouch. A sense of satisfaction washed over him his exhaustion hadn't been in vain. It had earned him something, however small.