Nobody paid attention to the forgotten elderly woman, until a young Black teen gently clasped her hand. She turned out to be a billionaire…

The wind grew sharper and the street lamps rarer but he kept his eyes forward. They passed fields sleeping under frost, crossed bridges lit only by moonlight, and paused once for Evelyn to catch her breath. He bought her a warm cup of tea from a roadside gas station with the last dollar in his pocket, and she insisted he take the first sip.

You need it more, she said with a tender sternness that reminded him of his mother. When the gate of 48 Oak Hill finally appeared, whitewashed with chipped paint and ivy curling around the iron bars, it was nearly 9.30 p.m. Andre’s legs ached, his hands were numb, but he exhaled in relief. He knocked once, then again, and moments later an elderly man in a housecoat opened the door, his expression transforming from panic to disbelief when he saw the woman behind Andre.

Miss Evelyn! Oh, my lord, where have you been? We’ve been calling hospitals! Evelyn looked around, then blinked again. I went for a walk. Or a ride, I suppose.

She smiled at Andre. The man thanked him profusely, his voice trembling. Please, come inside, warm yourself, have something to eat, let us give you a ride back.

But Andre shook his head, weary but content. No need. I should get back before it gets colder.

He scribbled his number on a torn receipt and handed it over. In case you ever needs help again. And with that he got back on his bike and rode off into the dark, unaware that his room would be locked and his bed replaced with a storage closet floor, but also unaware that something far more meaningful had just begun.

By the time Andre reached the edge of town again, the streetlights had thinned out and the warmth from the gas station tea had long faded from his hands. His knuckles were stiff and every bump in the road rattled up through the handlebars and into his bones, but he didn’t complain. The ride back was quieter, lonelier somehow without the gentle voice behind him or the small, familiar weight of someone trusting him to keep pedaling.

The wind had picked up by then, whistling through the bare trees and carrying with it the first sense of deep winter, wood smoke, cold metal, and something bitter that always seemed to hang in the air after nine o’clock. Andre coasted the last block to his boarding house, a narrow two-story with peeling paint and a porch light that never worked. He parked his bike quietly, climbed the steps and reached into his pocket for the key, only to find an empty space.

At first he thought he’d simply reached into the wrong one, but after checking every corner, every pocket, every seam in his jacket and jeans, it became painfully clear. The key was gone. He knocked gently on the door, hoping the landlord might still be awake, but no lights came on.

He knocked again, then louder. Nothing. When he tried the doorknob it didn’t budge.

Then, as if to confirm the inevitable, he glanced down and saw the small bundle of his belongings. His spare shirt, a towel, a cracked phone charger, stuffed into a plastic grocery bag and left beside the door like yesterday’s mail. There was a note, taped to the door.

Three words, written in thick black marker. PAST DO, LOCKS. His breath caught in his throat.

He stood there for a long minute, bike at his side, unsure whether to curse or cry. He did neither. Instead, André turned back toward the center of town.

His legs ached from the ride to Oak Hill and back. But he didn’t let them rest. He pedaled slowly, knowing there was nowhere left to go but needing to move anyway, because the cold was setting into his chest now, and stillness would only make it worse…