The rain had stopped for now, leaving steam curling from vents and puddles glimmering in the dim light. I stepped into the streets again, not like a stranger this time, but still cautious, testing the city, noticing the rhythm of people and gears, listening for the pulse that had begun to emerge in the chaos. My boots splashed in shallow puddles as I moved, shoulders stiff, eyes flicking to every passerby, every glint of brass and glass.
Steam hissed from a vent near the corner, curling into the air like a living thing. A tram clanged across the rails, and I pressed myself against a railing, heart thudding, waiting for it to pass. People moved around me with fluid precision, scarves tucked, goggles gleaming, boots clanging on cobblestones. A man with a brass arm flexed his fingers as he walked by, gears clicking in time. I tried to memorize the movement, mimicking it subconsciously as I continued down the street.
Hunger nudged me toward a narrow alley where the smell of roasted meat and baked bread twisted into the damp air. Steam rose from a small vendor's grill, skewers sizzling over open flames, a pot of thick orange liquid bubbling nearby. I dug through my coins, thin brass discs that felt foreign in my hands. I hesitated, then held one out. The vendor squinted at me, muttered a sharp string of words, then gestured to the skewers. I picked one, careful not to spill it, and bit. Warmth and smoke filled my mouth, a faint metallic tang tickling my tongue. I chewed slowly, feeling a little steadiness return to my hands.
Language remained a puzzle. I mimicked syllables I heard, attempting short phrases: "food," "help," "how much?" My voice cracked, mispronounced sounds earning a frown or a brief laugh. I shrugged, tried again. Gestures helped—pointing, tilting my head, mimicking a movement I saw. Sometimes it worked.
Sometimes it didn't. Enough for food, directions, or a tool. Enough to survive.
I stumbled into another alley and noticed a coat hanging outside a closed workshop. Stiff, warm, slightly worn. I tugged it over my shoulders, adjusting awkwardly. The sleeves were too long, but the weight and warmth were welcome. I practiced walking in it, keeping my shoulders back, mimicking subtle postures of others. A brief nod from a man with a hat tilted just so made my chest tighten in relief. Small victories counted here.
By midday, I had started carrying parcels for an elderly woman, balancing the weight carefully, observing how she held herself, noting the angle of her head and the placement of her hands. Every small interaction felt like a lesson. A child ran past, tripping, and I instinctively caught him by the arm. His mother's nod, her soft muttered thanks, made me feel, for the first time, that I was part of the city's rhythm, even just barely.
I experimented with words more boldly.
Asking for bread, offering coins, repeating phrases under my breath. Sometimes the vendors understood immediately. Sometimes I stumbled. Either way, the exchange—gestures, glances, murmurs—felt alive, tangible, a language I could grasp through trial and error.
Evenings were quieter, but the city never truly slept. I perched on a low wall near a square, watching children chase mechanical toys that hopped and spun unpredictably, their laughter piercing the hissing steam and the metallic clatter of gears. Street performers demonstrated brass contraptions, turning levers, tightening screws, adjusting springs. I crouched beside one display, turning a small gear in my hand, imagining how it fit in the larger machine. A man glanced at me, then smiled briefly. I returned it. Not words, but recognition. Connection.
Mistakes still happened. I misread gestures, bumped into crates, dropped coins. Each time, I adjusted, observed, and corrected myself. Failures taught me patience. Small successes—a nod, a smile, a brief acknowledgment—taught me I could exist here, not just survive.
By the third week of the second month, I found a small shed tucked behind a narrow alley that smelled faintly of oil and wood. The door creaked when I pushed it open. Inside, a brass-framed cot waited, and a small stove hissed faintly in the corner. Dust swirled faintly in the low light, but the space was dry and safe. I claimed it as my own. It wasn't much, but it was mine. Each night, I returned there, brushing the cobblestone dirt from my boots, setting my few possessions carefully, and feeling the shelter wrap around me like a quiet companion.
I slept on the cot, the thin mattress firm but comfortable, hearing the distant hum of gears and the hiss of steam as the city pulsed outside. From a small window, I could see rooftops and chimneys, the occasional glow of lamps flickering against the mist. I let the noises become a rhythm, letting them lull me to sleep, knowing I had a base, a place to return, a place to start the next day.
—-
*The next day*
I zipped up my coat and stepped back into the streets, the smell of coal and metal hanging in the air. I'd done more than survive these past weeks, but now I needed something more—something to give my days shape. A job.
I paused by a vendor stacking crates of produce. "Excuse… work?" I tried, my voice catching.
The vendor raised an eyebrow. "Work?" he repeated, tilting his head.
I nodded, pointing vaguely at myself. "Yes… job…?"
He squinted at me, muttered a few words I didn't catch, then shrugged. "Try the workshop down the street," he said, pointing.
I bowed slightly, thanking him, my stomach twisting with nerves.
I hurried a few blocks, my boots echoing against cobblestones. I spotted another man adjusting a mechanical cart. "Excuse… work… yes?" I asked again, pointing at the crates.
He laughed, low and warm. "Boy, you look lost. You want a job? Start at Henry's. The workshop with the brass sign." He nodded toward a building where I could see spinning gears and faint light flickering through windows.
I blinked, nodding rapidly. "Henry… workshop… yes. Thank you." I tried to repeat the name, hoping it sounded right. He chuckled again and waved me along.
I turned the corner and there it was: a large wooden door with brass fittings, steam hissing faintly from vents around it. Through the windows, I could see benches cluttered with tools, gears, and half-finished contraptions.
My heart hammered. This could be it—my first real foothold in this city, a place where I could belong, even a little.
I pressed my hand against the cool brass handle, took a deep breath, and hesitated. The streets had taught me how to walk and talk and survive. Maybe, just maybe, they were about to teach me how to work.