Everyone called him "Elliot" because that was the name sewn on his scarf. It wasn`t his scarf, and it wasn`t really his name. Neither one had been given to him by his mother. He just found them. Maybe the name used to belong to someone else.
       The bread used to belong to someone else, but it was his now. Stealing wasn`t wrong if it was food. He wasn`t stealing gold, after all, or jewels, and people who stole food never ended up on the news. If bread was made to be eaten, he would insure that it would be eaten. Did it matter to the bread if he`d paid for it or not?
       The bread was meant to be eaten, the baker was made to sell bread, the cops were made to chase Elliot. Elliot wasn`t made for anything, and that`s why he was out there on the Ticonderan streets, living in the grime in a dark alley. He knew this from ancient memories of a Very Large Person, at least large from the perspective of a child, lifting him up and striking him, and making sure he knew he was stupid and not worth anything. He guessed it was natural. People threw their garbage into the streets.
       He`d managed to lose the cops by now, and squatted against a wall, tearing into the treasure that was day-old bread. It was still somewhat soft, and didn`t feel rough against his tongue or display green, fuzzy patches like some food he`d had to subside on at times. Still, Elliot kept on alert at all times, as there were a lot of fellow beggers who wouldn`t mind "borrowing" his meal. He`d survived 17 years by keeping alert.
       How the man in the suit managed to sneak up on him and clamp the foul-smelling cloth over his mouth was something he would never figure out.

       Elliot woke up lying on something soft, surrounded by something warm. As he opened his eyes and sat up, he realized he was in a smallish room with blue wallpaper and a small, glass-encased bookshelf packed entirely too full of old books. He was wearing warm linen pajamas. They smelled like reeds.
       His first thought was that he`d died. Elliot didn`t know anything about any sort of afterlife, but this place was certainly nothing like his street, or like anything he could remember. He could recall a thick, choking chemical smell right before he`d blacked out earlier. Things that smelled like chemicals were poison, right?
       Nor could he figure out what one was supposed to do when one was dead. He still felt a stinging hunger in the pit of his stomach, so dead people still ate, he hoped. The pajamas made his arms itched, so he discovered that dead people still scratched. Without a window with which to see the sunlight, he couldn`t tell what time it was. So maybe dead people didn`t tell the time.
       There was a door, however.
       Quietly, still looking about with the same alert he always did on the streets, Elliot stepped out of the bed and tiptoed over to the door, turning the brass handle and opening it slowly. It led to a well-lit hallway, flanked with electric candelabras and lined with red wallpaper. As he stepped out, his feet touched something soft, similar to the rugs some of the shopkeepers sold, but thicker and softer. He wasn`t sure why he found himself walking, rather than running, or why he went in the direction he did, or why he stopped in front of the two large, deep-red doors and knocked. The doors were carved with pictures of a unicorn. Maybe the unicorn led him there.
       After a moment, the door quietly swung open, creaking loudly as a large, broad-shouldered Man In A Suit stepped forward, looked him over expressionlessly and turned behind him. "He`s awake, sir." Elliot`s first instinct was to run, but the Man in the Suit grabbed his arm and pulled him in abruptly, and the doors slammed behind him.
       This was another small room, lit only by candlelight, and lined even more tightly with books. A hunched figure with long, silver hair and shaking hands turned around in a chair, looking over his visitor and nodding. "Hmmm. So you`re awake. Now, now, calm down, stop staring, I know this must be a shock..what`s your name, young man?"
       Elliot didn`t speak. He never had anything to say that he couldn`t nod or shake his head to, or scribble down quickly if he needed to. When he did try to talk, what came out was barely a sigh. He knew his name, at least the one that everyone called him, but when people asked it he would just show them the scarf.
       Which he didn`t have. Panicking, he dug through the numerous pockets, ran his hands over his shirt and neck as the Suit grunted "Tell him your name, kid. Don`t be rude." They`d taken his name!
       The old man waved a hand at the Suit, and nodded quietly. He pulled out a smallish pad and ballpoint pen, and thrust them both into Elliot`s hands with his own shaky ones. "Just write it down, then, if you don`t want to speak."
       He`d find his scarf, he decided, one way or another. The old man had to have it, or the Man in the Suit. Maybe when he got the chance, he could grab the glinting letter opener and slash their throats, and take his scarf back. But in the meantime, not having much of a choice, he scribbled down, as best he could, "elliot."
       "Elliot," the old man stroked his beard as he read the name out loud. "Well, then, it`s good to know you can write. Don`t know how you learned to do it out there, but that`ll come in handy. Stand up straight, son, stop looking around everywhere. It`s impolite not to look at someone who`s addressing you." He turned to the Suit and gestured to one of the books, and the Suit nodded, pulling out a thick, dark blue one with a leather cover that had obviously seen better years. His hands still trembling, the man opened the book to where a cloth bookmark had been placed, and directed the boy`s gaze to a small passage. "Can you read that?"
       
              O thou, my l_vly boy, who in thy power
       Dost hold Time`s ____ glass, his ????;
       Who hast by waning grown, and _____ show`st
       Thy lovers ????, as thy sweet self grow`st;

       Half the worlds didn`t make sense to him, and some he couldn`t read at all. Elliot himself was sure he had memories of someone in a cloak teaching him how to read, years ago, but he`d used it to know what signs like "Do Not Enter" meant, and to have an advantage over the street-dwellers who didn`t know how to read. What good were words like t-h-e-r-e-i-n or f-i-c-k-l-e? Were they foods, or warnings? And what was that passage even talking about?
       Still, he could read part of it, and so nodded in affirmation. "Good, good," the old man smiled a bit, showing lack of teeth. "You`re the one I was hoping for. Sit down, sit down." He gestured to an empty chair, and Elliot, still waiting for his chance to strike, obliged. "My hands are withering, you see. They keep shaking, it makes it harder to write. You have strong hands, you could help me write so long as you can read. Won`t you help?" Elliot shook his head, still not entirely understanding the proposition. "You`ll have a place to stay, and warm meals. I`ll let you stay here as long as you help me here. If not, you can go back on the streets."
       This gave him pause. He was being offered a place to stay, and food; it was something hard to pass up. Still, if he wasn`t made for anything, why did the old man want him, in particular, to help?
       At any rate, he wasn`t about to leave without his scarf, so he nodded in agreement to accept the job, at least until he could find his posession. The old man gave another toothless smile, and sent the Suit to escort Elliot back to his room, where a maid was waiting with a tray of tea and shortbread. The shortbread tasted sweet, even better than bread, but the tea burned his throat. The bed seemed even softer.

       The next morning, the Suit woke him up with a sharp rap on the door, and told him to get dressed, holding out a suit and vest. Since Elliot had never worn anything of the like, the Suit took it upon himself to help him put it on, buttong the vest tightly. Everything was still loose, and Elliot felt like he was wearing an itchy bag, but the Suit mumbled something about "best he could do" and escorted him to the old man`s room, after a breakfast of foods Elliot had never tasted before. He wasn`t sure he liked all of them, but food was food.
       The old man spun his chair around, gesturing Elliot to sit, and handed him the same pen and a piece of much fancier parchment. The book was still open, and the old man pointed a finger to another passage. "I don`t know how fast you can write, or how well you can read, but I`d like you to write a few things down for me as best you can. Try to get it done by sundown, and you can stay here. Don`t rush, now, just try to get it done."
       It was the passage with words he didn`t understand, and that didn`t make sense, only now the entire part was circled. But Elliot could read letters, at least, and copy those, so he`d just do that. The old man never had to know if he understood it or not.
       Still, it often took him a while to remember how to copy a letter correctly, or he`d have to scratch it out, or the old man would look over and "tsk", telling him that he needed to write it bigger for his old eyes. He managed to finish the passage in question by the time the sun was hanging at the top of the sky (for this room had windows, thankfully), and another maid came by with a tray of sandwiches that Elliot tore into greedily.
       "Don`t eat so fast, Elliot, you`ll choke. Besides, after sunset, you won`t have to worry about your next meal anymore, not if you complete the job. I`m happy to see you, now. I`ve been worried."
       The last part caused Elliot to almost drop his sandwich. Why had the old man been worried? Why did he care? He was a rich man who probably had never even interacted with the people on the streets. Elliot was a random choice, a lucky choice who could read and write even if he couldn`t speak. The man just chuckled a bit, and gestured for Elliot to please continue, pointing to another passage.
       
       My mistress` eyes are nothing like the sun;
       Coral is more red than her lips` red;
       If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
       If hares be wires, black wires grow on her head.

       This one went on, but had a few more words Elliot understood, and so it was much easier to copy, as the old man looked on and corrected him, and asked him to write a bit bigger, or a bit neater if possible. This sort of ritual continued, with various different passages that made no sense but were full of letters to be copied, as the sun started to hang low in the sky.
       When the sun was a great, red ball in the horizon, and Elliot put down his pen after writing down a passage including the word c-a-n-o-p-y, the man held his hand up, and leaned back in his chair. His breathing had become more labored as the day had gone on, but Elliot, engaged in his task and wondering when the next non-stolen meal would come, had barely noticed. Now he looked up with Elliot, his glassy eyes squinting for a moment.
       "Are you sure you can`t speak?"
       Elliot nodded. That was something he just knew for certain. People who meant nothing had nothing to say.
       "Ahh...that`s a shame....you see, I was hoping you could read that first passage you wrote down to me before dinner, Elliot...I always wanted to hear you read it to me, just as I once read to my grandfather at sunset."
       Grandfather? Garbage didn`t have grandfathers.
       "Now, don`t look so shocked, you just look like I always pictured my grandson to be. I never met him. I can`t break the chain, however, it`s a family tradition, so could you please try, Elliot? If you can?"
       He never could figure out why he did it, or how he was able to do it, but even though he couldn`t read most of the words without sounding them out, and even if his voice was barely a whisper, and made his throat sore...
       
       "O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
       Dost hold Time`s fickle glass, his sickle-hour;
       Who hast by waning grown, and therein show`st
       Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow`st;
       If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,
       As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back,
       She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
       May Time disgrace, and wretched minutes kill.
       Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!
       She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure:
       Her audit, though delay`d, answer`d must be,
       And her quietus is to render thee.

       The old man smiled, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair as his breathing became more labored. "Like I always pictured it...when I was a young man, your age, I read to my grandfather in his twilight just as he used to read to me in my childhood. I`m sure someone read to you when you were a boy; after all, you can read yourself. You should keep those papers, Elliot, whether you choose to stay here or not."
       "Why.....let...stay? Why...m-me....?"
       Reaching into his drawer, the old man pulled out the treasure, the valuable posession, Elliot`s scarf. "This used to belong to my son. I thought he would pass it on to his own son, even if he won`t talk to me anymore...I`m glad I could talk to you, Elliot."
       Elliot`s eyes widened. That was...
       "It`s about sunset...time I took a rest...talk to Reinwald, that`s the man in the suit, after dinner...I`ll skip it tonight, lost my appetite..." The old man closed his eyes, letting out a long sigh.
       "But I....n..."
       "I.....nooot.."
       He wasn`t breathing anymore. The young man could recognize the familiar signs of death easily. And he was recalling how he`d found the scarf...
       How a man in a well-tailored suit had been stumbling drunk through the streets, carrying a heavy bag.....how he`d been muttering curses and silently sobbing under his breath..
       How the boy had seen another man, one of the street-dwellers, strike him with the back of an empty glass bottle, and send his body slumping to the ground, blood pouring out of a wound in his head...
       How the others rushed to grab what they could off of the body, clothing, belongings, the bag..
       How he himself had found a red-stained hankerchief, embroidered with a unicorn and the name E-l-l-i-o-t.....