The days dragged on, each one more unbearable than the last. Kyle’s search for work became a monotonous routine, each attempt met with cold rejection. The city, with all its noise and movement, felt like a distant world to him. He was a shadow, walking the streets unnoticed, his existence nothing more than a faint whisper in the cacophony of industrial progress.

  The last of his savings had been spent on his meager room, and soon, that too would be gone. The landlord’s face, stern and unyielding, had made it clear that there would be no more extensions. Kyle had no money left, and no way to pay. The thought of returning to the streets, to the hunger and cold, was more than he could bear.

  One evening, as he walked through a quiet alley, his stomach gnawed with hunger, he came across a group of beggars huddled around a small fire. Their faces were gaunt, their clothes torn and ragged, much like his own. They did not speak, but the silence between them was heavy, filled with shared suffering. One of the men looked up as Kyle approached, his eyes dull with the same hopelessness Kyle now felt.

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  “Nothing left to give, is there?” the man said, his voice rough and tired. “The world’s too busy for us.”

  Kyle stood silently, the weight of those words pressing down on him. The beggar’s words echoed in his mind, a harsh truth he could not escape. The world, with all its progress and steam, had no place for men like him—men who had nothing but the clothes on their backs and the ache in their bellies.

  He sat down by the fire, his legs too weak to carry him any farther. The warmth of the flames did little to ease the cold in his heart. He had once dreamed of a future, of work and purpose. Now, that future seemed as distant as the fields he had once worked, swallowed up by the relentless march of time and progress.