In Lyon, even taking food from a trash bin was theft.
And for boys like Julien — boys old enough to carry a gun — getting caught meant forced labor.
Or worse.
So he moved carefully.
Street to street.
Avoiding patrols. Avoiding the light of the lamps.
Those eyes that watched from windows.
If they saw you — really saw you — you had one option:
Run.
Disappear for a day. Two.
Or die.
He made it to the German street.
Immediately, the scent hit him — bread, fresh and golden.
Perfume, too. Flowers.
Cologne — sharp, masculine. Familiar in a way that made your chest tighten.
He spotted a broom.
Left behind by a street sweeper, probably by accident.
Julien picked it up. Whispered a promise to return it.
That broom fed someone. He knew that.
So he became that man.
The sweeper.
The invisible.
He brushed the sidewalk with care, inching closer to the back alley of a café.
He remembered its name, even now: Dawn.
Because that’s what it became for him that day — a begi He swept like he meant it. Quiet. Focused. Until he was right there — at the trash bins. Inside — treasure. Cream still clinging to paper. Burned flatbread — still edible. A bottle of syrup, almost empty. Add water — you’d have something sweet. Enough to survive. He filled his coat. His pockets. A makeshift satchel. And then — he saw it.