The lamp at the corner of 102nd and 5th had been broken for the last three days, making Roger's daily walk to work a little more dangerous. The chill of the autumn night showed in each of his exhales. A light breeze ruffled the leaves of the abundant trees.

A shiver traveled through his body, although he wasn't cold.

Roger looked at the blood-red moon above. It hung low, deep, and ominous, painting the sky with an ethereal red glow.

His grandfather would have called it a Mayan Moon—a harbinger of change, transformation, or even turmoil—a moment when the veil between the worlds thinned and the power of the unseen flowed freely.

All his godsends or catastrophes had come on the moon, but he mostly remembered the falls- the night they left Arandas, the night he was left alone, the night he squandered it all, all haunting his memories, etched in his soul. So tonight, he walked, watched, and waited.

His senses were heightened as he neared the dark corner, not that he felt any particular fear from the typical street thugs that roamed the park. They had long ago learned to leave him alone. But other things could roam in the darkness, his Tata would have warned.

Perhaps that's why when a bleeding old man ran in front of him and collapsed at the foot of the stairs that led to the Arthur Brisbane Monument, he wasn't particularly alarmed.

With what seemed to be his last breath, the man looked up at Roger and said, "Run!"

It seemed like he thought someone was chasing him, but no one followed. He cocked his head, trying to listen for pursuing footsteps, but there were none.

With an hour till his shift started, he had been strolling through Central Park to kill time, and it had been uncharacteristically quiet. He had few friends at the hospital. His situation made him weary, and on top of it, he was—he admitted to himself—a loner.

His old Timex Expedition watch marked midnight as he hurried to aid the elegant gentleman. He looked at it and remembered his Tata; it was the only thing he had left of him.

As he neared, he tasted more than smelled the coppery tang that permeated the air. The man lay motionless, breathing raggedly.

The back of the vest the man wore had three gashes—as if a gardening hand rake had slashed across it—bleeding profusely. A pool of dark liquid collected underneath him.

Roger looked all around, and to his fortune, the corner was deserted. He sighed and put his right hand on the man's shoulder, concentrated, and whispered, "K'ux."

His Tata had prohibited using his gifts in the open, but the old man could not make it to Mt. Sinai. "We help in silence, lest we fall to the excesses of the past," his grandfather had warned.

An azure glow emanated from his palm, and the gashes stopped bleeding. His Tata would have been proud of his control. It won't heal him completely, but it will be enough to get him help.

He took his wrist and sent a small pulse of Ch'ulel through the man's body. He's dying, but it won't be today. However, something felt odd about the old man.

He searched his memory.

"Ch'ulel lets you feel the connection to all living things. We are all connected to one degree or another. When someone is closer, destined, you'll feel it," His Tata had explained when he first mastered the technique he had just used.

Connected to this old man? I'll talk to the old guy after my shift if there's time.

He frowned as he heard the old man mumbling something unintelligible. Only the word "run" could be made out.

Paranoid, old man. I better get him to the Hospital before he dies on me.

Having inherited his father's physique, Roger's 6'1" frame effortlessly bore the man's weight for the two long blocks to the emergency room, where the nurses quickly took charge.

Roger watched for a few minutes, but not having any other reason to stay, he went to his locker, changed into his overalls, and started his rounds, cleaning the areas where the day's filth had accumulated.

He smiled at the late-shift nurses as he went from station to station on the 5th floor. His status had changed now that it was known he was a med student.

A perky blonde nurse approached him and said, "Hey, Roger. Some of us are going for a drink Friday night; you wanna come?"

For a brief second, he was tempted. She was attractive and had a pleasant personality, and it had been a long time since he had even held a girl's hand. But...

"Hey, Chloe. Thanks, but I got a study group," he lied, "I can barely keep up with work and school. Next time, ok?" He winked at her.

It was best to have good relations with the nurses. But he had no time or money for dating and was not inclined to start something with someone from work.

After that, he continued his routine in silence. A few nurses greeted him, but he moved quietly for the most part. He dumped the garbage, wiped the counters, and mopped the floors, one nurse station after the other. It was numbing work, but it paid the bills, and he had medical and dental from the hospital.

On the 5th floor were the terminally ill cancer patients. It was a problematic floor for him. He felt like he should do something, but curing cancer was beyond his abilities.

Pushing his cart through the desolate, dimly lit corridor, he heard the soft whimpers of the woman in 503. He could hear her buzzing, but the nurse was not at her station. The woman cried from the pain. With deliberate effort, he continued to the station. The buzzing stopped.

Fifteen minutes later, he walked past the room again. The woman had passed out, clutching her stomach. The pain was still visible in her face. He clutched his fists. He took a step in and backed out. Then in again and stood next to the bed.

His right palm touched her abdomen, and he softly said, "K'ux." The azure light permeated the woman's stomach. He held his breath for an uncomfortable two minutes. Then he exhaled, turned, and walked out. He smiled. Two minutes was a personal best. Tata would have scolded me, "At your age and only two minutes, what are you proud of?"

The nurse at the station noticed him leaving but said nothing. Crap, that might be a problem. I'll say I saw some garbage on the floor if they ask.

Fortunately, no one said anything, and he continued his rounds.

Four hours later, he took his twenty-minute break. At the cafeteria on the first floor he bought a coffee and ate the sandwich he brought from home alone.

Then on to the 6th floor.

He finished his shift at 8 A.M., a special dispensation they had given him so he could study.

"Ya goin' to school, Roger?" An older nurse from the E.R. he normally chatted with asked as he exited on his way to the train.

"Yeah, Betty. Gotta run to make it on time," he shouted as he hurried.

"Wait a sec," Betty said, exasperated as she walked toward him.

She handed him a card, "Dat old man you brought in? Big shot, turns out. 'Bout an hour after you split, felt like every doc in Manhattan showed up. Anyway, he was askin' 'bout you, left this card for ya 'fore they choppered him outta here."

"Thanks!" He tucked it in his back pocket without reading it.

He hurried down 102nd to 3rd Av and took the train to Amsterdam.

As he went on the 40-minute ride, the rhythmic clatter of the tracks lulled him, and he mused about how much his life had changed in the last year.

He jumped and screamed when the DACA paperwork finally came in the mail.

Dr. Flores hugged him when he showed her.

"Let's go to HR right now!" She said. Then she helped him get off early to go to school, talked to Professor Reinhart at admissions, and got him financial aid for school.

He smiled. Tata would like that he would be helping people. His chest constricted. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. If only they were all here.

Unbidden came the day they had left Arandas for the US. He had never understood why. One day, an old man went to the house and talked to his Tata, and a week later, they had sold everything and started their trek north.

When he asked, they had ignored him. The only time he had ever been hit was when he rebelled, and his father had grown furious. They had not been close after that. If only I could hug him now. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Centering himself like he had been taught.

He looked at the sea of strangers surrounding him on the train and sighed. The motion of the train braking made him aware he was almost at his destination.

He shook himself and returned to the present. He buried the bad memories with good ones. He remembered the joy of getting into City College.

A week after his papers, he was in school. Granted, it was tough going back at 30. He had aimlessly wasted his 20s, but after Tata and his parents passed, he truly had nowhere to go. But he had been in school for almost a year now and had settled into a comfortable routine.

The train reached Amsterdam. "The moon guided our people; may the moon guide you," his Tata would say, he thought as he stepped off the train. He smiled, looking forward to biology.

The noon sun scorched the back of his neck, yet Roger remained seated on the curb, unmoving. The irony didn't escape him—being Mexican, fair-skinned, and so susceptible to sunburn. His saving grace, at least in his view, was that he wasn't blonde, unlike many of his childhood friends.

Complicating matters, he was of Mayan descent and stood at 6'1". The only trait he seemed to have inherited from his 5-foot mother was his ability to manipulate Ch'ulel. "Rejoice," Tata would say, "for only the kings of old could wield such power." Yet, there he was, a walking contradiction—a sitting one at the moment.

Beside him were two suitcases, a backpack, and a potted fern with wilting leaves, despite his daily care—the sum total of his earthly belongings. The entrance to the building where he used to live loomed behind him.

He was unsure about his next move. Clearly, he could not afford another apartment. Renting a room seemed feasible, yet unsustainable in the long run. A shelter might have been an option if only he had known where to find one.

He considered consulting Betsy, his 10-year-old Huawei phone named after its previous owner, for answers. But with his internet cut off three days prior and his data reserved strictly for emergencies, he hesitated. Wasn't this situation dire enough?

So he sat, catatonic, struggling to grasp how his life had unraveled so completely. For the thousandth time, he blamed the old man. He wouldn't be in this mess if he hadn't ignored the Mayan Moon's warning and let him be. The very day after his act of kindness, his life began to spiral.

Upon arriving at work the next night, he was confronted by HR and a security guard. Accused of stealing a valuable necklace—solely because a security camera had caught him entering the patient's room—they searched his locker, found nothing, but still dismissed him with a form to sign and his final paycheck. The hospital had found its scapegoat, and he, the lowest on the totem pole, was it.

Finding another job that fit his school schedule proved impossible. Then, his schoolwork started to falter. No job and no money had taken its toll. At times like this, being a loner was disadvantageous. He had no family and no network of friends. After two years of seeing him daily, he didn't even know his next-door neighbor's name.

That's how he found himself penniless, unable to persuade his landlord to give him more time, and now—three months later—evicted.

Half-heartedly, he blamed the old man. Using his gift had set him on this path; had he not intervened, he wouldn't have found himself in this predicament. It was a weak excuse, but in his mind, someone else had to bear the fault.

It had been an inescapable constant of his life that after every mountain, there was a valley. Just that his valleys were never filled with trees and meandering brooks but more akin to dark crevices that required effort and fortitude.

It wasn't staunchness, the discomfort of the sidewalk, or the oppressive sun that spurred him into action but an inexplicable feeling of being observed. Standing, he fetched Betsy from his pocket, intent on finding a shelter. Tomorrow, he reassured himself, had to be better.

The arrival of the silver Maybach, which pulled up in front of him, went unnoticed until its window lowered, revealing an elderly, well-dressed gentleman.

"Mr. Catzín?" The man's voice conveyed a certainty, suggesting he already knew the answer. "I'm Arthur Doyle, a senior partner at Harrington, Beckett & Sterling, and the executor of Chester William's will. I've been trying to reach you."

Roger, taken aback, recalled the missed calls from unknown numbers over the past few days. Wordlessly, he acknowledged the man.

"As the executor, I'm here to inform you that you're a beneficiary. The will reading is scheduled for 3 p.m. today. Please, come with me."

The driver silently stowed Roger's few possessions into the car's trunk and held the door open for him.

The drive to the firm's Park Avenue offices was quiet. Roger was too bewildered to speak, and Mr. Doyle was absorbed in his documents. Lawyers sure do read a lot.

"Your belongings will be safe here," Mr. Doyle assured as they arrived. "Follow me, please."

Entering the plush reception area on the 22nd floor, Roger stopped dead. There, casually flipping through a magazine, was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

This is my first time entering the Open Novella Contest 2024 [ONC2024]  or any contest for that matter.

The prompt I picked is "A midnight stroll and a meeting with a frantic stranger."

Don't forget to follow if you like the story. 

Let me know what you think in the comments.

How much of the inheritance do you think Roger is going to get?