The cold sliced through the air like invisible blades. Juan huddled in his worn coat, a gnawing hunger tightening in his stomach. He hadn’t had a proper meal in three days, surviving only on scraps he found or discarded leftovers. The street had been his home for months—relentless, unforgiving, and barren.
Every night, the scent of caramelized onions and roast beef from “Grandma’s Seasoning” tormented him. It was a smell that promised warmth and comfort—exactly what he lacked. Through the fogged window, he watched families laugh, diners savor steaming plates of food.
There, the garbage bins overflowed. To others, it was a feast; to him, a disgrace. He approached quietly, clumsily moving through the darkness. His heart beat wildly against his ribs, a drum of fear and hopelessness.
The lids of the bins creaked open. The smell was a bitter blend of discarded food and rot. His hands, cracked and red from the cold, trembled as he searched through the refuse. He was looking for anything—perhaps a piece of bread, a scrap of chicken, or a bruised piece of fruit.
Each minute felt like an eternity. The fear of being caught was suffocating. What would they say? Would they shout at him? Would they report him? The glares of contempt were daggers he knew all too well.
Suddenly, a large shadow loomed over him. Juan froze, his hand clutching a piece of stale, hard bread, paralyzed with fear. His breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t bring himself to look up. He knew he had been spotted.
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