He let out a tired but satisfied sigh as he knew that another long day was done...

He began to clean his small cart.

He wiped down the griddle with a small dirty handkerchief.

He then put away his spices and sauces, and counted the day's meager earnings.

In the frying oil, a few small, crispy pieces of leftover meat still floated.

But he did not throw them away.

As if they knew, a few thin, hungry-looking children appeared from a nearby alley.

They were street kids.

One could tell from how their clothes were quite ragged.

They gathered quietly by his cart, their eyes fixed on the scraps.

The old man only smiled.

He scooped the leftover bits of meat from the oil, let them cool for a moment on a piece of paper, and handed them out to the waiting children.

Their small faces lit up as they took the food and ran off.

With his good deed done, he packed up.

He lifted the handles of his heavy wooden cart and began to pull it down the quieting street, heading for home.

The wheels creaked with each turn.

He was almost to the corner when the front right wheel hit a deep crack in the cobblestones and jammed.

He grunted as he tried to put his weight into it, attempting to pull the cart free but it wouldn't budge...

Just then, he heard the low rumble of a large truck turning onto the street behind him.

He didn't panic.

The road was wide enough.

He assumed the driver would see him and go around.

He gave the cart another hard tug.

As he did, he glanced over his shoulder.

His blood went cold.

The truck wasn't slowing down!

Instead, it was coming straight at him.

And through the windshield, he could see the driver's head tilted back, his eyes closed.

The man was asleep at the wheel!

A jolt of pure terror shot through the old vendor.

He let go of the cart handles and tried to jump sideways out of the way.

But as he leaped, the worn fabric of his shirt sleeve caught on a sharp, protruding nail on the cart's wooden frame.

It yanked him back violently, throwing him off balance.

He stumbled, his feet tangling.

He tried to rip his sleeve free, but the fabric held tight.

He was trapped, tethered to the heavy cart right in the middle of the road.

He looked up.

The truck's grille filled his vision.

The roar of the engine was deafening.

He didn't even have time to scream.

The truck hit him and the cart with a sickening crunch of metal and wood.

...

Meanwhile, in a small, tidy house in one of the city's quieter neighborhoods...

Inside the kitchen, an old woman stood by a worn wooden table.

Her back was slightly bent with age, her gray hair tied loosely behind her head.

Deep wrinkles lined her face, especially around her eyes and mouth, signs of a life spent working rather than resting.

Her hands were rough and calloused, fingers stained faintly from years of seasoning meat and handling charcoal.

She was preparing skewers for her husband's small street cart.

On the wooden table before her were chunks of meat, sliced vegetables, and thin bamboo sticks.

One by one, she carefully pushed the pieces of meat and pepper onto the sticks, arranging them neatly in a large tray.

The work was simple, repetitive, and peaceful.

She trimmed fat, cut along the grain, and set the pieces aside carefully.

Nearby, bamboo skewers were soaking in water, ready to be used.

On another table lay small bowls filled with spices... salt, crushed herbs, ground pepper, and a dark sauce she had mixed earlier.

As she finished the last skewer of the batch, she could not help but stop.

The woman paused and wiped her hands on her apron.

She glanced toward the small clock hanging crookedly on the wall.

Her brows furrowed slightly.

"It's already this late…"

She muttered under her breath.

The time of the day was ending, and the sky outside her small window had grown dark.

A small, fond frown touched her lips.

She wondered what was keeping her husband.

He usually returned from his day selling skewers by this time.

Why hadn't he come back yet?

Perhaps business had gone well bad hence he went off to find a place to sell the rest off?

Or maybe he had stopped to talk with someone on the way home.

She told herself these things, one after another, stacking reasons to keep worry at bay.

Her eyes drifted to the stove, where two pots were still warm.

In one was a hearty meat soup, rich with vegetables.

In the other was a light chicken broth. It was a small luxury.

They had made a little extra money yesterday, and she wanted to celebrate with a proper meal together.

She had set out two bowls on their small table, ready for when he walked through the door.

After cleaning her workspace and covering the tray of skewers for tomorrow's sale, she felt a wave of tiredness.

She moved to her worn but comfortable armchair by the fireplace and settled into it with a soft sigh.

She would just rest her eyes for a moment while she waited.

The house was quiet except for the gentle ticking of the clock and the faint crackle of the last embers in the hearth.

She listened for the familiar sound of his footsteps on the path outside, the turn of the key in the lock.

But the sound didn't come.

As the minutes stretched, her restful waiting began to shift into a quiet, nagging worry.

He was never this late...

He would always send word if he was delayed.

A small, cold knot of unease formed in her stomach, pushing aside her earlier contentment.

She sat in the dim light of her silent home, the extra bowl of soup cooling on the table, and wondered where her husband could be.

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