There was plenty of food for Sartore to harvest. A lot was left out in the open, packages and bags standing alone in the center of single-room houses. And it was far more than leftovers—he found thick slices of meat, fresh cakes and warm pastries. This small feast constituted his first meal in a handful of days.


    And yet, nothing else could be found. No beds. No clothes. No shoes, no belongings left behind, wherever the people that made these things had gone. The pastries were warm, Sartore thought to himself. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    He didn’t dwell on the thought for long. He thought that this small village would be a good place to sleep before continuing his journey home in the morning. In the meantime, while he waited for the sun to set, he walked around the outskirts, finding new angles of the village and inspecting the surrounding grass vegetation. All of the greenery tapered off into the dirt once it got too close to the houses themselves.


    Sartore had no complaints when darkness approached. He walked slowly towards the nearest house, found a comfortable enough corner, and stuffed himself into it. Comfortable enough, he thought.


    He was, eventually, awoken by commotion outside.