The Lucky Fortune

In the shadow of the city's heartbeat, where the streets hummed with a symphony of everyday struggles and fleeting joys, there stood an old brownstone. Its face was weathered like Abuelo’s, each wrinkle a story, each chip in the stone a memory. Here, on the stoop of this building, under a sky turning the color of bruises, Abuelo shared a simple dinner with his grandson, Miguel—a boy whose laughter could turn even the greyest day bright.

As the city wrapped itself in twilight, the two delved into Chinese takeout, the smell of soy and ginger mingling with the urban air. Abuelo loved these moments, a sacred pause in the relentless march of days. They spoke of small things, the tiny wonders of life.

Abuelo: "How was school today, mijo?"

Miguel: "It was cool! We learned about butterflies. Did you know they taste with their feet?"

Laughing, Abuelo shook his head, marveling at the boy’s enthusiasm.

Abuelo: "Is that so? Guess every step’s a new taste, huh?"

Miguel’s giggle pealed through the air, a sound Abuelo cherished deeply, especially since the boy’s mother, his own daughter, had been stolen from them by in a reckless parking lot argument - another life lost to the city’s careless violence.

The meal continued, with Miguel barely able to sit still, his young mind already moving beyond the boundaries of his plate. His curiosity led him to dig into the takeout bag, searching for more than just leftovers.

Abuelo: "Hold up, partner, you’ve still got food on your plate."

Miguel: "But Abuelo, I’m stuffed."

With the flair of a seasoned conjurer, Abuelo drew a fortune cookie from the bag.

Abuelo: "Stuffed, huh? And what about this?"

Miguel’s eyes lit up, a grin spreading across his face.

Miguel: "That's different, Abuelo. That's for my dessert stomach."

Abuelo: "A dessert stomach, eh?"

Miguel: "Yeah, look!" He lifted his shirt, showing his belly. "This part’s for rice and chicken. But this spot," he pointed with a small finger, "is just for dessert."

Amused and touched, Abuelo tossed the cookie to Miguel, who caught it with a flourish. The cookie snapped open, revealing the fortune inside. Miguel read it aloud with the solemnity of a sage.

Miguel: "Look, Abuelo! It says, 'It’s your lucky day!' Isn’t that awesome?"

Abuelo: "That’s fantastic, mijo! What a—"

The moment fractured. A sharp, sudden crack, like the world itself splitting, cut through their conversation. Miguel’s smile faltered, his eyes widened in confusion, then pain, as he crumpled to the stoop, the fortune slip fluttering from his hand like a lost bird.

In those seconds, time seemed to recoil, pulling back the deadly trajectory of the bullet. It traced its path back, through the air that still echoed with Miguel’s laughter, narrowly missing innocents—a girl with a jump rope, a man waiting for a ride, an unassuming electric pole—before settling back into its cold origin.

Minutes earlier, a confrontation had escalated just blocks away. Luis, embittered by life and quick to anger, had confronted José, a man tired of being pushed around.

Luis: "What you doing back around this block! Didn’t I tell you to stay away?"

José: "I had to take care of somethings."

Luis (menacingly): "I sure hope whatever you came to take care of was worth the beating you’re about to get."

José: "It sure was, you won't bully me anymore!"

In a desperate assertion of dignity, José pulled the trigger. The camera, in real-time, stared down the barrel of his gun, capturing the fatal decision before darkness took the screen. As the echoes of the gunshot faded, the slip of fortune lay beside Miguel, now silent and still. Abuelo held the boy, his grief a raw, open wound. The community's reaction was immediate—a familiar ache, a shared mourning under the streetlights.

The fortune slips out of Miguel’s lifeless hands and floats to the floor with the text facing the sky “Today is your lucky day”.

The night deepened around them, as the sound of siren’s joined in the choir of noise that was the city’s pulse, a relentless reminder that life moved on, even if some of its stories ended too soon.