Shadow Of Grace

Edward was only 17, born to rich parents, but destiny kept him apart from a life of wealth and luxury. He lived in a constricted one-room apartment, its walls decorated with flaky paint and its furnishings frayed with time. Situated at a corner was a battered icebox that hummed louder than the blaring horns of vehicles, forcing their way down the road, filling the vacuum of loneliness with its endless chatter. From its lopsided door came the damp, sour breeze of spoiled food.

Edward rarely ate at home—who would give him food or the money to buy it? He had no one to call his own except this icebox, gifted long ago by an unknown woman who had taken pity on him on a forgotten birthday. It stood now as both an antique and a memo.

Each night, Edward stood by the window. The frame was adorned with fragments of broken glass, all set to fall apart, but a laundry wire he had constructed kept it from collapsing. That same wire also bore the burden of his torn clothes. Everyone in the neighbourhood knew those clothes—his red checker-patterned long-sleeved shirt, which appeared to be ripped apart by the claws of a bear, and his faded blue trousers with their seams ready to fall off and render the trousers seamless.

The room itself seemed as though it was alive. It breathed with neglect and deep solitude. Every single object echoed his loneliness: a cracked cup resting on a teetering table, a chair with one leg shorter than the rest, an old mattress thinned into slender wires that tore his back each night he slept.

It was a prison of muteness, a cage of exhausted vibe, yet Edward called it home.

In the morning, Edward's alarm rang—not a clock, but the gurgling icebox and the intolerant noise of horns blown by vehicles down the lane. He always woke up with a banging headache. His whole body was covered in bruises from wrestling with the spiky mattress. Above him, the ceiling wore a long map of brown stains, which he had memorised every morning he opened his eyes.

He sat up slowly with his feet touching the cold concrete floor. He sluggishly carried himself to the washroom. The mirror present there was decorated with cracks. Below, it was a chipped basin of water that was half-filled. He bent over it and splashed his face. This was his bathing routine; no soap, no towel, just a water splash.

His stomach began to roar out of hunger, but as usual, he ignored it. The day had begun, and the same question made a comeback: “How would I survive today?”

When he left the washroom after performing his routine, Edward sat on an unequal-legged chair, his palms rubbing off against each other as though friction alone could warm him. His stomach groaned, but the hunger was more than just a wail for food. It was the haunting reminder that he lacked everything a boy his age should have—care, joy, laughter, and most of all, a home.

Sometimes, the pieces of his past return like shattered glass. For a moment, the foul stench of the room was replaced by the sweet aroma of cake baked in his mother’s kitchen. The blaring horns outside became his father’s deep voice echoing through the glorious halls of the house he once called home. But the illusion slipped away into thin air

It was clear—destiny that had robbed him of a life of luxury and left him with the inheritance of loneliness. Survival in San Diego was ruthless. It was not about food or comfort. It was about how long he could persevere in the absence of these necessities.

Amidst his thoughts, Edward rose. He put on the famous outfit for which the whole neighbourhood knew him. He gave one last glance at his companion—the icebox. It turned out that the noise caused by the icebox whispered courage to him. He pulled the door open, and the still air emanating from it bid him farewell.

He walked down the lane. Edward usually earned his peanuts at the theatre at the northern end of San Diego. It was a square red-brick building with a single door and no windows, and could have been a bank or possibly a chapel, except for the neon sign over the front door that read: THE DIEGO CIRCUS.

Every morning, Edward left the house and journeyed to this place where he struggled, performing plays to make a living.

When Edward boarded the bus, people began staring at him. Why? His clothes made him stand out, and that awful smell turned off everyone present on the bus. They were eager to see this strange figure who had just entered. He sat down quietly. As he admired the view outside the bus, he thought: “This is not the kind of life I wish to live. I need to find a better job. But before that, I need to get my salary from Mr. Hovey to pay off the rent.”

At the same time, fear took hold of him—he remembered he still hadn’t paid the landlord. Just then, a call came through on his phone. It was the landlord. Edward reached for it, but before he could, the bus came to a halt. He alighted quickly, forgetting the call, as he had reached his destination.

Now he had arrived at the Diego Circus. It was time for Edward to begin his play.

He paused for a moment, watching a boy of about ten steal a loaf of bread. The boy clutched it to his chest while being chased by a furious trader. In that flash, Edward saw himself in the boy—running, surviving.

He tightened his jaw and moved on. His day had begun; so he had the battle. In San Diego, quietness meant giving in. To live, one had to keep moving.