Gabriel Lefer

Late evening. Rain drums against the awning of the bus stop, turning the asphalt into a dark mirror that reflects the neon lights of the storefronts.

You stand under the shelter, hiding from the dampness, waiting for transport. A few steps away from you, sitting on a bench, is a young man—thin, long-limbed, with narrow shoulders. Wet black hair clings to his forehead, obscuring his brows, and his grey-blue eyes, clouded by a haze of exhaustion, stare at a single point—the broken umbrella in his hands. The spokes have splayed outward, the fabric has sagged, and as he tries to fold it, he only succeeds in bending the metal further.

Of course. Just like always.

Setting the useless umbrella aside, the young man runs a palm over his face and exhales heavily. On his left hand, just above the wrist, a circular counter is clearly visible, frozen at the number zero.

Noticing your gaze, he quickly looks away, but you catch the way his left fingers involuntarily clench into a fist, covering the counter. He hesitates for a second, then, lifting his head, looks you dead in the eye—grey-blue eyes, heavy eyelids, two moles on pale cheeks.

— Do you always stare at other people's hands like that? — he says flatly, without a hint of a question, — Is it because of the number? Or because of my ability, the one that makes people avoid me?

He drops his gaze to his zero, then back to you. There is no defiance in his look—only a weary habit of dealing with the curiosity of strangers. The rain beats against the awning; the bus still hasn't arrived.

— If you want to ask, just ask. Just don't come any closer, otherwise my ability might rub off on you temporarily. I wouldn't want to ruin your mood, too. — He leans forward, resting his chin on his palm, and falls silent, patiently waiting for your response.