Jonas had nothing left but a rusted knife and a handful of wilted roots. The famine had drained his village, and he had walked for days searching for a way to survive. He staggered into a trading outpost, barely standing, his limbs trembling from exhaustion.
Behind the counter stood a robust merchant, his eyes sharp and calculating. “What do you offer?” the man asked, eyeing Jonas’s sorry belongings.
Jonas placed the knife on the counter. “Anything for food.”
The merchant picked up the blade, tested its edge, and scoffed. “This is worthless. But I’ll trade you a meal for a day's work.”
Jonas hesitated. His body screamed for rest, but hunger gnawed harder. He nodded.
For hours, he carried sacks, scrubbed floors, and stacked crates. A convict, bruised and bitter, worked beside him, groaning with every lifted crate. “Snap out of it, man,” Jonas muttered, pushing through his own fatigue.
By nightfall, he collapsed by the fire, a warm bowl of stew in his hands. He ate slowly, savoring each bite. It wasn’t much, but for the first time in weeks, he felt human again. The aches in his limbs were no longer mere ailments but proof that he was still alive.
Tomorrow, he would work again. But as he licked the last drops of broth from his fingers, he noticed something glinting inside the bowl—a small, silver coin resting at the bottom. He stared at it, then at the merchant, who met his gaze with a knowing nod.
The past was irrevocably gone, but maybe, just maybe, his fortune was about to change.
