As wind worried the coats of everyone waiting, I slipped into a city bread line to start my work as a street kid, already feeling the weight of what I carried. I watch the sky for a change in weather, and I kept thinking about a notice posted in a shop window, wondering who would repeat it and who would deny it. By midday, the rhythm broke. I noticed thin soup smell and paper crackling in cold, and I told myself to remember them, because later people would argue about what it 'really' felt like. A voice behind me gave an order, and I nodded as if it were ordinary, even though my stomach dropped. As the hours stretched, boots scuffing the sidewalk reminded me that history is made in bodies as much as in speeches. Before sleep, I tucked away my worn gloves and promised myself to remember the day honestly, even if honesty felt unsafe.