Two Worlds Apart

CHAPTER II - ADRIAN

Adrian crouches over a rusted tin can, carefully working it into the shape of a small bird, his brow furrowed in concentration. His fingers ache, raw from bending metal, but he doesn't mind. He knows he'll have something beautiful to show his parents when he's done - something crafted from his own hands, a tiny creation to add to their shelf.
Around him, the street hums with familiar noise. Voices drift through the air, laughter and shouts, punctuated by the beat of an old radio someone managed to fix up. Music spills into the street, and two little girls dance barefoot on the cobblestones, their skirts swirling around them as they twirl and giggle.

"Adrian!" a voice calls, jolting him out of his focus. He glances up to see Daniel, his best friend, grinning at him from across the street, a bag of apples slung over his shoulder.

Adrian's face breaks into a grin. "Did you steal those?"

Daniel rolls his eyes, walking over and dropping down beside him. "Borrowed, more like. Old Man Kelford never even noticed. Besides, he's got plenty."
They share a quick, conspiratorial laugh before Adrian reaches into the bag, pulling out a bruised but sweet-smelling apple. He takes a bite, savoring the sharp, juicy taste that spreads across his tongue.
"So what's that you're making?" Daniel asks, watching as Adrian works the tin's sharp edges into a tiny beak. He holds up the half-formed bird with a shrug.

"A gift for my mother," he says simply. "I figured... they don't fly around here anymore, but maybe we can at least have one inside."

Daniel grins. "She'll love it. She loves everything you make, even when it's just scrap metal."
Adrian glances around at the patchwork buildings and painted walls of the Dark Slate, the uneven rooftops that seem to lean on each other like old friends. Here, nothing is perfect, but somehow, everything feels like it belongs. He thinks about how his mother smiles every time he finishes a new piece of art, whether it's a misshapen metal bird or a drawing on a scrap of paper. She's the one who told him art can bring life to the dullest things.
"Where's Poppy?" Adrian asks, noticing their friend's absence.

Daniel rolls his eyes, tossing a pebble down the street. "Probably up on the roof, watching for the next handout from the Upper Slate."

The Upper Slate. Adrian doesn't know much about it, only that it's a place full of rich, stern people who live in massive towers that almost touch the sky. The stories of the Upper Slate are woven into the whispers of the Dark Slate - tales of a place where people are so rich they can afford to throw food away, a place where they look down on everyone from behind cold glass windows.

Adrian has never seen it up close, but sometimes, when he climbs to the highest rooftop, he catches a glimpse of those shining towers in the distance, glinting in the sunlight like distant stars.

He looks back at his work, smoothing out a jagged edge, but the thought of the Upper Slate lingers. "What do you think they do up there?" he asks quietly, almost to himself.

Daniel scoffs. "Probably counting money or polishing their fancy clothes. Why do you care?"
Adrian shrugs, frowning a little. "I don't know. Just... curious, I guess."

Daniel gives him a funny look. "You know, they think we're trash down here. They look at us like we're bugs or something. My father says they don't care about anything but themselves."

Adrian nods slowly. He's heard similar things from his own father, from neighbors, from anyone who has anything to say about the people who live up in those glittering towers. But there's still a small part of him that wonders - what would it be like to stand up there, looking down?

A sudden shriek of laughter jolts him from his thoughts. He looks up to see Poppy racing down the street, her curls bouncing wildly as she holds something above her head - a piece of cloth, bright red and billowing in the wind like a flag. She skids to a stop in front of them, out of breath and grinning.
"Guess what I found," she says, thrusting the cloth at Adrian.

He takes it, running his fingers over the fine fabric, the softest thing he's ever felt. It's lined with golden embroidery, intricate patterns looping and swirling along the edges. His mouth drops open a little. "This... it's beautiful."

Poppy snatches it back with a mischievous smile. "Saw it at the border. A lady from the Upper Slate dropped it, and I got there before the guards could chase me off."

Daniel's eyes widen, and he shakes his head. "You shouldn't be messing around up there, Poppy. Those guards... they don't mess around."

But Poppy just laughs, tossing the cloth over her shoulder like a royal cape. "Oh, please. They can't catch me. Besides," she says, lowering her voice to a whisper, "I like to imagine what it'd be like up there, you know? Fancy houses, fancy clothes... probably no one ever goes hungry."

Adrian watches her, a pang of longing in his chest that he doesn't quite understand. The fabric's rich colors stay in his mind, a stark contrast to the worn hues of their surroundings. He wants to say something, maybe to admit that he's been wondering about the Upper Slate too, but before he can, his mother's voice calls to him from the doorway of their home.

"Adrian! Come inside, love - it's almost time for supper."

He stands, brushing the dust from his pants. "I'll see you both later," he says, giving them a wave before turning and heading toward the small, cluttered house he calls home. Inside, the air smells of cooked onions and warm bread, the scent of a day's hard work distilled into something that feels like comfort.
His mother is setting the table, her face lighting up as he walks in. "Did you have a good day?" she asks, her hands busy with plates and chipped cups.
He nods, holding up the small tin bird he's shaped. "I made this for you."

Her eyes soften, a warmth in her gaze that makes him feel ten feet tall. "It's beautiful, Adrian," she says, taking the bird gently in her hands. "You've got a gift, you know that? You see beauty where others see nothing."

He shrugs, his cheeks flushing. "It's just a bit of scrap metal."

"To some people, maybe," she says, setting the bird carefully on the shelf beside other small trinkets he's made over the years. "But to me, it's art."

They sit down to eat, and Adrian glances around the small, cozy room - the patchwork curtains, the worn furniture, the little bits of color they've added wherever they could. His father sits beside him, patting him on the back, and they eat in contented silence, the clatter of utensils and quiet conversation filling the space with warmth.

Yet, even as he eats, he can't shake the image of that embroidered cloth, the idea of the Upper Slate. For as long as he can remember, everyone has warned him about them - about their coldness, their greed, the walls they've built to keep people like him out. And yet, some part of him can't stop wondering. What would it be like to see it up close, to touch something so beautiful without fearing it would be taken away?

As he takes the last bite of his meal, a thought roots itself in his mind, stubborn and unyielding: he wants to see that world, to understand it, to look past the stories and see it for himself.

"Adrian?" His mother's voice pulls him back to the present. She reaches across the table, a gentle look in her eyes. "Is everything all right?"

He forces a smile. "Yeah, everything's fine."
But even as he says it, he feels the weight of something unsaid settling in his chest, a quiet longing he can't ignore. He knows he should let it go, focus on what he has here - the family, the friends, the life he knows and loves. Yet the curiosity gnaws at him, a hunger for something he can't quite name.
The meal ends, and he helps his mother clear the table, exchanging easy laughter with his father as they wash the dishes. But as night falls and he lies in bed, staring up at the cracked ceiling, that small, distant ache lingers, pulling his thoughts upward, toward the glittering towers of the Upper Slate.
For the first time, his home, usually so full of life and comfort, feels smaller than he remembers.