The figure slunked through the whispering room; a crowd bustled, making secret exchanges under tables with money most likely wrongly earned. The man held his head low, fingers tapping against his jeans, feet slapping on the ground. He listened to the music of the room. It was all shadow, all lies. He was a liar, and he was a thief.
His mind buzzed with a fresh fix, spent with money he didn’t earn. He clenched his fists, muttering in Russian under his stumbling breath.
The darkness danced to a half-heard tune only he could play. He listened to the fragments of it, shaking his head as it barely escaped his grasp. His feet skipped too many beats. He tripped. A few of the market workers were snapped from their trance. He saw their eyes flicker in his direction, then wander back to their task.
The man stood up, ajar from his rightful state. He watched the shadows play in the hidden room under the bustling city. No one knew where he was. No one cared. The man gritted his teeth, trying to reach for the pieces, the notes that he felt within him, and saw kicked up dust pouring in. He hummed one note to call upon more, but they too escaped him.
He walked to the back corner, lamplight no longer revealing him. He hid in the dark, watching, gritting his teeth. Then he exhaled and tears fell from his eyes.
Music poured from him, a sad cry, a quiet weep. No one heard him then. No one ever did.
