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 The city is awake, but not really alive. The sun doesn’t just shine today; it is merciless and unforgiving, like an assassin on a job. It feels like a physical weight, hovering over my head and clouding my thoughts. Absence of the morning birds is unusual — there's generally some noise at this hour. I almost imagine them as the first victims of this unbearable heat. Meanwhile, A faint smell of warm dust rising from the road, mixed with the sour trace of sweat and the oily scent of food keeps lingering around me.

It is indeed a "high-pressure" day— a day that pushes summer down to the bottom of my favourite season list.

Across the shimmering zebra crossing, people are moving like zombies. Men in damp suits and women with artificial faces and their eyes glued to their devices. Their conversation screaming deadlines, overtime, and broken air conditioners. They are neither happy nor sad, just endlessly exchanging complaints. No real conversations, only a constant stream of grievances. They exist like normal everyday objects, going through the day without really living it.

Then, the  noise punctured all of a sudden. "God is real!"

The voice was firm, stripped of the exhaustion that plagued everyone else. Five—no, six—figures stepped onto the white stripes of the crossing. They are wearing neither robes nor suits—just plain, unremarkable clothes. Yet their voices carry a strange sense of clarity.

"But God is not good!" another shouted.

The crowd doesn't stop. They curved their paths around the preachers like water flowing around stones in a stream. No one listened. No one cared. To them, it was just another interruption in an already exhausting day.

"In order to open the eyes of the Divine toward benevolence, we must carry out the *Murderatta* at the earliest!" the lead preacher cried, his hands raised toward the vastness of the sky. "Join us, and we will walk the path of good. A world free from suffering shall be yours, for you deserve it!" *Murderatta! * The word hung in the humid air, sounding like a rhythmic curse.

Near the entrance of a nearby cake shop, a young girl, clutching a square box tied with a pink ribbon, is startled by the sudden, aggressive chants. Her heel catches on the uneven pavement. The box slips from her fingers, hitting the ground with a soft thud. A faint sweetness escapes—vanilla and sugar—quickly swallowed by the heat and dust.

The preachers marching past her make her feel even more uneasy, their boots rhythmic against the concrete. They don’t look down. To them, her small tragedy doesn’t exist in the “vastness of the sky.”
As the girl slumps to her knees, staring at the bent cardboard, a new shadow falls over her.

It is a wolf.

Or rather, A figure appears wearing a fluffy white wolf mask, its big round eyes and wide goofy smile making it look more silly than scary.

"Ah, these guys again!" I say, a comedic lilt slipping into my voice that feels entirely out of place. I begin picking up the box with care. "They never really get members, do they?"

"If you don’t get customers, just close the damn shop. Why waste money advertising?"

The girl looks up at me, her tear-filled eyes widening. I guess the sight of a wolf trying to act like a concerned neighbour isn’t exactly normal. The sob in her throat turns into a sudden, shaky laugh—something I don’t expect. She stands up, dusting the city grit from her knees.
“I know that, mister,” she says, her voice steadying as she wipes her cheeks.

“I’m not a kid. You should really work on your jokes—they’re not that good, if you really think about it.”

"Well," I say, tilting my head as I hand back the box, "as long as someone smiles, jokes serve their purpose—no matter how bad they are."

I take a step back and flash a sharp, childish “OK” sign with my hand. The girl stares at me for a second, like she can’t believe what she’s seeing—just completely thrown off by how silly it is. She lets out one last genuine laugh, turns on her heel, and sprints toward the crowd.
“Wearing that mask in this heat makes you an even bigger idiot—and your jokes are terrible too!”

She shouts over her shoulder, her voice fading into the city’s noise.

I watch her disappear into the crowd; my hand still stuck in that 'OK' sign. It’s nice to see children being themselves, not shadows of the twisted beliefs passed down to them. Not all of them get that chance though. I remember a kid just like her, but filled with rage that wasn’t hers. She lost herself to the chains of blood. In the end, she became just like her father. It was all over the news—how a drug peddler’s daughter died of an overdose in an abandoned factory. I lower my hand, finally dropping the stupid “OK” sign as people keep ignoring me.

Do I even exist to them?

I did it again—turning the smallest bit of happiness I find into a cursed memory. Seems like I’m the one who needs help.

I keep walking and see trouble ahead. A girl with short ginger hair and black backpack slung over her shoulders, there’s no mistaking that. That’s definitely the dove from hell. At this pace, I’ll catch up to her, and that’ll be a complete disaster. And if I take the longer route, this heat will definitely kill me.

So, I take the longer route.

“We’re all going to die someday—so why not today?” I chuckle to myself.

I quickly make my escape through the next valley from the side and start walking peacefully. This path is far better than the earlier one as I see lively people doing their work. Its a street that people generally don't go if they have to reach their office.

Because if they do, they will surely be late. A long detour is never my go to option but circumstances make you do strange things all the time. 

The familiar owner of the chocolate shop notices me and starts heading towards me with a stick.
“You are bad for business!

 I have told you that several times, haven’t I? she said.
“I know, Ma’am. I definitely do! I said to her.
She looks at me; her eyes laced with concern.

 “You don’t seem well today… maybe next time.”

“Unwell? Never. I don’t fall sick that easily,” I reply, a little too quickly.

She lets out a small gasp before turning and heading back to her shop. I follow, lingering near the entrance as she settles in.

The place is quiet—as it usually is. Most people avoid her shop. It’s not hard to see why. Standing nearly six feet tall, she has a presence that always feels intimidating to common folks. The kind of person who drives customers away without saying much at all.

Her shop carries a distinct smell—old furniture, sweets, and cats. She sells only a handful of things: everyday essentials and her own homemade chocolates. As I shift my gaze towards her, she’s already watching me, adjusting her glasses.

“Hey, you!

Buying something, or just wasting my time?”

....
“I want some chocolates,” I say without hesitation.

She walks over to the refrigerator and pulls out one of her special choco-chills. She hands over me the chocolates.

“Anything else?” Her voice softens this time.

I know that softness far too well. No matter how cold she seems on the outside, she always speaks gently to the few people who actually buy her choco-chills.

“That’ll be 120 estra, if that’s all,” she says, while her cat meows impatiently around her feet.

She immediately turns to it, her expression softening completely as she bends down to pet it. I place the money on the table and start to leave.

“I’m going to close the shop soon.”

......

Her voice stops me mid-step. I turn back.

“Thought you should know,” she adds, not quite looking at me. “You’ve been my only customer this past year.”

There’s a pause before she continues.

“It hurts… throwing it all away like this. Twenty-five years of it—gone.” She exhales shakily. “I always told my mom this place isn’t my cup of tea. That I’d never be able to take care of it properly.”

Tears slip down her face despite how casually she tries to speak.

She picks up her cat, holding it close, then glances at me.

“You’re not bad for business,” she says, a faint and sincere smile forming.

“I am."

"Just saying.”

Then she looks away again, burying her face in the cat’s fur.

“Is that really how you see it?” I say, my voice firm enough to catch her attention.

She looks up at me.

“One year isn’t that long,” I continue. “Places don’t just become successful overnight. It takes time… more than you’re giving it.”

She shoots me an unpleasant look, tightening her grip on the cat, but says nothing.

“Just so you know… you don’t always have to carry on a legacy,” I add.

“You could maybe create a new one.”

Her eyes snap toward me as she gently sets the cat down.

She removes her glasses, wipes her face, then cracks her knuckles.

Did I just say something terrible? Am I about to get beaten up?

I take a cautious step back.

“Kids these days talk a lot,” she says, her voice low.

“No idea when to stop.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “What are you—twenty? Something like that?”

Her fist slams onto the table with a sharp thud. Before I can react, she rushes toward me.

I freeze.

She draws back her fist, ready to punch—

but just as it’s about to connect, she stops and flicks my forehead instead.

“Ow!”

I wince, clutching my head.

She bursts into laughter.

“Who even are you?” she says, shaking her head. “Do you enjoy getting smacked? Most people run the moment I do that.”

Like you even gave me a chance to move… I mutter to myself.

Do I look like a professional at getting hit?

No way I’m saying that out loud.

“Why so quiet now?” she says, raising an eyebrow.

“You were saying something, weren’t you? Go on—I’m all ears.”

She leans back in her chair, watching me.

I stay where I am, unsure.

“Come here,” she adds after a moment, gesturing toward the seat in front of her. “Sit.”

Well, staying here isn’t such a bad idea. The air conditioner feels heavenly compared to the heat outside.

I walk over and sit on the chair.

“Do you smoke?” she asks, still cracking her knuckles.

“No, ma’am. Not at all. I’m quite fond of my lungs,”

I reply, sounding a little good boy.

“That’s good,” she says, grabbing a bag of chips from the shelf.

“Otherwise, I’d have tossed you out already.”
I’m so proud of myself for being me. If I’d tried to act cool—like in those movies where people light up together after a question like that—

it would’ve been… yeah, bad idea.

“Speak up already,” she says, munching on her chips. “You get lost in your thoughts way too easily.

"Don’t make me repeat myself.”

I snap back to my senses and straighten slightly.

“Well… if you want to rebuild your legacy, you don’t have to rely on the past,” I say, keeping my tone steady.

She listens, surprisingly patient.

“You don’t need to change who you are,” I continue.

“Maybe just… change what’s around you.”

She grabs another bag of chips, tearing it open.

“Put simply, you could move somewhere else. A place where you can actually be your—”

“Stop right there.”

She cuts me off, finishing her second bag of chips. She drops the empty packet onto the table.

“Since I was a kid… all I ever gave my mother was trouble,” she says.

“Love and affection weren’t even on the list.”

She lets out a quiet breath.

“My dad saw that—and one day, he just left.”

Her hand absentmindedly rests on the table as her cat jumps onto her lap.

“But my mom…” she continues, her voice softer now, “she never stopped taking care of me."

"Never asked for anything in return.”

A faint smile forms on her lips.

“Once, I almost got arrested for beating up two idiots.” She shrugs.

“You know what she did?”

She glances at me, a hint of amusement in her eyes.

“She made a new kind of chocolate for me.”

She pauses.

I don’t say anything—just nod, letting her continue.

She lets out a short laugh, shaking her head.

“Can you believe that?

"Chocolates… for beating people up.”

“I loved those chocolates,” she says quietly.

“So much that she just… taught me how to make them.

"I didn’t even have to ask.”

She runs her fingers along the edge of the table, lost in the memory.

“After a while, I noticed something. They didn’t taste as good when they melted..."

"but when they were chilled, they felt different."

"Better."

"Calmer.”

She lets out a small breath.

“That’s how chocochill happened.”

A voice cuts in from the entrance.

“Hey—anybody here? I just need two Li-ion cells real quick—”

“Stop.”

Her voice snaps through the room before he can finish.

The boy freezes.

“How many times do I have to say this?” she says, already on her feet, walking toward him. “I don’t sell anything except chocolate.”

There’s no shouting now—just something heavier in her tone.

The boy backs away.

“Y-yeah… okay…”

He turns and hurries out.

She follows him to the door, making sure he doesn’t linger, then shuts it with a firm push.

A moment later, she walks back in like nothing happened.

“Sorry about that,” she says, dropping into her chair.

Her cat jumps into her lap. She absentmindedly starts petting it.

“Now… where were we?”

Well… that explains it. After seeing that, “Chocolate Yeller” suddenly feels like a very accurate nickname.

She then continues her story.

“I started making them for her every day. And I mean every day.”

A faint smile flickers.

“Didn’t matter if I was sick… or had a broken bone.”

The smile fades just a little.

“I still made them. Because… that was the only thing I knew how to give her.”

“Until the very end… she never blamed me,” she says quietly.

“Not for my father leaving."

Not for the police showing up at our door every now and then.

"Not for any of it.”

Her fingers curl slightly into the fur of the cat in her lap.

“She just… stayed.”

There’s a pause.

“She died in her sleep. Just like that.”

Her voice steadies, but only barely.

“And all she left me with… was that recipe.”

Her voice falters for a second.

I stay quiet, but I don’t look away.

A faint, bitter smile crosses her face.

“I don’t blame her. Maybe this shop was her way of protecting me—so I wouldn’t have to deal with people.”

She exhales. “Because whenever I do… someone ends up getting hurt.”

Her gaze drops to the table.

“But I still messed it up.”

A small shake of her head. “I ruined the one thing she left behind.”

“Someone like me doesn’t deserve to keep this place running.”

A silence settles between us.

I reach for a chocolate and take a bite.

She watches me, confused.

I pick up another one and hold it out to her. After a moment, she takes it.

I adjust my mask.

“You’re thinking too much,” I say quietly.

She looks at me—this time, there’s something different in her eyes.

“Just tell me,” I add.

“how does it taste?”

Her eyes well up again.

Suddenly, she slams her head onto the table with a dull thud—and then she starts laughing.

Not the light kind. Something messier.

Her cat, startled, slips off her lap and lands on the floor with a sharp meow.

I flinch.

“Ma’am—hey, you don’t have to—” I step forward, unsure what to even say.

She sits up abruptly, as if snapping out of it, and immediately reaches down.

“Hey… hey, sorry,” she murmurs, picking up the cat and holding it close.

“Didn’t mean to scare you."

“I can’t believe I was actually thinking of closing the shop,” she says, her expression steady now.

“I’m going to keep making them… as long as I’m breathing.

"I mean it.”

Seeing her all motivated, a exit plan pops up in my mind.

“Then I should get going,”

I say, picking up my bag.

“You’ve got something to work toward now—don’t let it slip away.”

“Yeah… but where do I even start?”

Her voice trails off, the confidence slipping just a little.

“Where do I even start…” she repeats under her breath.

I finish the last of the chocolate, brushing the crumbs off my hand.

“Ever heard of someone selling chocolates at Hothead’s Street?”

As soon as she hears those words, her eyes light up.

A grin spreads across her face.

“Yes… that’s it,” she says under her breath, as if something has finally clicked.

Then, louder— “Yes!”

She taps the table with her fist, not quite able to contain herself.

For a moment, her excitement spills over—raw and unfiltered.

Then she pauses, collecting herself.

She extends her hand toward me.

“Thanks,” she says.

“For helping me figure this out.”

I nod, shaking her hand.

“It’s actually pretty simple,” she adds, almost to herself.

“My mom loved me for who I am… so maybe I should do the same.”

She walks me to the door.

“Just make sure I get a discount when your prices skyrocket,” I say.

A small smile tugs at her lips.

“By the way… you never told me your na"me.

"I can’t believe I forgot to ask,” she says, adjusting her glasses.

“Michael Rotanta,” she adds, smiling.

“Victor Roberts,” I reply.

“Nice to meet you.”

She tilts her head slightly.

“What do you do, Victor?”

“I’m a clinical psychologist,” I say.

“I run a private practice on Tamen Street.”

“Oh… I see it now,” she mutters. “That explains a lot.”

“See you at Hothead Street,” I say as I step out of the shop.

She gives me a small wave. I return it before heading off into the heat.

I’m back in the desert.

Only this time, it’s buildings instead of sand dunes, and machines instead of camels.

Hothead’s street—everyone knows it. Guess she was just too worn out to notice the goldmine sitting right in front of her.

It’s a strange place. Angry people cooking even angrier food… and somehow, it works.

Orders, insults, laughter—it all blends into one constant roar. Metal spatulas slam against pans, oil crackles violently, and somewhere in between, a man argues over the price of something he’s already half-eaten. I remember a vendor shoving a plate into my hands before I could even ask.

“Eat first. Regret later, moron.”

After all that fire, who wouldn’t want something cold?

Chilled chocolates… from a six-foot-tall woman who scares her own customers away

A small pause.

Yeah…. She’ll fit right in.