The Rogue Luna

Chapter 8 – Hunger and Hollow Streets

Aria's POV

After the long night of staring at the stars, I went back to sleep. Then the next morning, I woke up to silence. Not the soft kind that feels safe, but the kind that presses down on your chest and reminds you how empty everything is. My eyes opened to the pale ceiling of the hotel room, and for a moment, I almost forgot where I was. Then the ache in my stomach pulled me back. It was sharp and hollow.

The small pouch of money I had was already lighter. I had counted it twice the night before, convincing myself it would last longer than I knew it would. The truth was clear now. If I didn’t find a way to survive soon, I’d be out on the streets again, and this time, there wouldn’t even be an alley I could call mine.

I sat up slowly, running a hand over my face. My body felt heavy, my thoughts were heavier. The bed was too soft, too warm, and it almost mocked me because I knew it wouldn’t last. Comfort wasn’t meant for people like me. I slipped my bag over my shoulder, tucked the pouch inside, and left the room again in search of work.

The city was already alive. Cars rushed past and horns blared. Humans hurried down sidewalks; their steps were quick. Their eyes were glued to those little glowing devices in their hands. I moved among them quietly, trying not to draw attention, though I felt like I stuck out no matter what.

I started with the shops. A bakery first — the smell of bread hit me before I even stepped inside, my stomach twisting tighter. I asked the woman at the counter if she needed help. She looked me up and down, her face hardening.

“Do you have an ID?” she asked.

The words again. The words I hated. Those are the words that didn’t get me a job yesterday.

I shook my head, trying to smile. “No, but I can work hard—”

She cut me off. “No ID, no job. Try somewhere else.”

The next shop was the same. And the one after that. Clothing stores, small cafés, even a flower shop. Every time I opened my mouth, the answer was waiting. Do you have an ID? Do you have papers? Do you have proof?

By midday, the rejection had sunk into my bones. My feet ached, my throat felt raw from repeating the same desperate lines, and my stomach was burning with hunger. I tried to ignore it, but every street I turned onto made it worse. Vendors sold hot food from carts, the smell of meat and spices floating in the air. People bought meals without thinking twice, tearing into them with laughter and full mouths. I had to look away.

I ended up wandering into a part of the city that felt different — noisier, dirtier, the buildings closer together. The sidewalks were cracked, and stray papers blew around my feet. Still, people filled the streets, their voices blending into one constant hum.

That’s when I heard it.

Music.

At first, it was faint, almost lost in the noise, but as I moved closer, the sound grew clearer. I followed it until I found them — a group of humans standing on the corner. One strummed a guitar, another tapped on a small drum, and the third sang. Their music wasn’t perfect, but it was alive. It carried over the street, and people stopped to listen.

Coins clinked into an open case at their feet. A few bills, too. The musicians grinned at each other, moving with the rhythm like they didn’t have a care in the world.

I stood on the edge of the crowd, frozen. My eyes stayed on that case, on the way money seemed to fall into it as if it were nothing. They were just playing, just existing, and people rewarded them for it.

Something inside me shifted. My mother’s trumpet. I thought of the weight of it in my bag, the way I had held it last night. Could I do that? Could I stand on a corner and play? Would anyone even stop to listen?

The thought both scared me and gave me hope.

I stayed until the song ended. The crowd clapped, dropped more coins, and then moved on. The musicians laughed, counting what they had made before starting again. I wanted to step forward, to ask how they did it, but my feet wouldn’t move. Fear pinned me down.

Instead, I turned away.

By the time I dragged myself back to the hotel, the sky was dimming. My body was sore, my stomach empty, and my spirit crushed. I fumbled with the key, slipped inside, and closed the door behind me. The silence felt heavier than in the morning.

I dropped my bag onto the bed and sat beside it, staring at the floor. For a long time, I didn’t move. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even breathe properly. I just sat there, feeling like nothing.

Finally, I reached into the bag and pulled out the trumpet. The metal was cool under my hands, familiar in a way nothing else was anymore. I turned it over slowly, tracing the dents and scratches. My mother’s last gift. The one thing that had stayed with me through everything — through loss, through betrayal, through exile.

I lifted it to my lips but didn’t play. Not yet. I just held it there, the weight steadying me.

Could this really save me? Could music feed me, protect me, give me a place in this world that wasn’t mine?

I didn’t know.

But as the night settled in, I realized I didn’t have much of a choice.