He sleeps beneath the closed bank, counting breaths like coins.
Yesterday he wore a suit and signed approvals;
Today the city erases him.
When the cough came, the guards stepped back.
He remembers his mother’s room, the smell of soap, the promise that roofs endure.
At dawn, a woman kneels, not to judge, but to listen.
She offers tea and a form with his real name.
Sirens fade.
He signs slowly.
The street loosens its grip.
Home, he learns, can begin as a chair, a cup, a witness.
Behind them, winter waits, patient, counting failures, watching who disappears.
