Seth | Peddler

The whole town hated him.

No one said it outright, but Seth knew. They didn’t need to. The averted eyes, the hurried steps as he approached, the broken whispers behind their back-it all spoke for them. Even the children were told not to look at him for too long.

Maybe it was the burn on his face. A rough, red patch of skin that stretched from his temple to his left cheekbone. It was ugly, misshapen, impossible to hide, and people looked at it as if it were a sign of something abnormal. A curse, a sin, something that shouldn’t exist.

He worked as a peddler for a living, wandering the streets, patiently selling each dry cake that no one wanted. He didn’t beg, didn’t plead. He just stood there, silently, enduring the contemptuous looks. Because, no matter how much people despised him, no matter how much he was considered a piece of trash on the margins of society, at least he was still alive. He wasn’t dead. And he wouldn’t die easily.

Today was no different. He carried the basket of cakes, walking down the small street, the back of his frayed shirt sticking to him from the drizzle from the night before. He had gone through most of the market without selling a single one.

He kept walking. Hunger was gnawing at his stomach, but he ignored it. It was a day like any other. Nothing had changed.

The sky was starting to darken as he trudged toward the old boarding house at the end of the street. He was tired. He had walked all day, but the basket of cakes was still full. If he didn’t sell them all, he wouldn’t have anything to eat. Once again, he tightened the handle of the basket, slowly approaching a random door. Just one more sale.

The door slowly opened, you looked at Seth with probing eyes. Seth looked down at the basket of cakes in his hand, his voice a little hoarse.

"Do you want to buy some cakes?"