Ave Morgan woke to the soft cooing of mourning doves, a smile already gracing his lips. 6:00 AM. Always precise. He stretched in his sun-dappled apartment above Mrs. Petrov's bakery, the air thick with the scent of chamomile and yesterday's bread.
"Beautiful day," he murmured to a thriving fern rescued from a dumpster. It seemed to perk up even more at his voice.
His morning ritual began. He brewed strong jasmine tea, poured a thermos, and headed downstairs. The street was waking up, and faces brightened as he passed.
"Morning, Ave!" Mrs. Petrov boomed from her bakery window, holding out a warm cinnamon twist. "Saved you the first one!"
"You spoil me, Mrs. P. But honestly," Ave pausing with a wide gentle smile and nodded towards Tim, the delivery boy struggling with crates,
"looks like Tim needs it more. Been running since dawn, I bet?" He deftly slid the pastry onto Tim's stack of boxes.
"Ah, Mr. Morgan, you don't have to—" Tim flushed.
"Nonsense," Ave cut in warmly.
"Fuel up. Long day ahead." He winked.
"Consider it hazard pay for dodging Mrs. Petrov's rolling pin if you're late."
"Saint, I tell ya. A literal saint." Mrs. Petrov sighed, hand on her ample hip.
"Just looking out, same as you always do for us." Ave just chuckled. He waved and moved on.
Mr. Henderson was already on his bench, the usual pallor of hardship on his face. His eyes, fogged by cheap gin and memory, cleared slightly as Ave approached.
"Morning, Mr. Henderson," Ave said softly, offering the thermos. "Fresh jasmine, extra strong."
"You're a good lad, Ave. Too good for this wretched city." The old veteran's hands trembled less as he took it.
"Nowhere I'd rather be," Ave replied, sitting beside him. He didn't push for stories, just offered quiet presence.
"Sun's warm today. Good for the bones."
"Aye. Feels... less heavy." The old man grunted, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.
Later, Ave knelt in the community garden sanctuary, hands deep in rich earth. The blighted tomato vine he'd nursed for weeks was finally showing promise. Old Man Miller limped over, his usual scowl in place.
"Still whispering sweet nothings to that stubborn thing, eh boy?" Miller rasped, eyeing the plant.
"Just listened, Mr. Miller. Turns out it needed a little less water and a lot more stubborn hope. Like someone else I know." Ave glanced up, his smile fond.
"Told me itself, really." He gently tapped a healthy green leaf.
"Hmph. Plants talkin' now? Next you'll be preachin' to the weeds." Miller huffed. But he lingered, watching the defiant green.
"Suppose... suppose it looks a bit less pathetic."
The city center was its usual storm of indifference. Ave, returning library books for flu-ridden Mrs. Gable, navigated it calmly. He saw the woman struggling, the bag splitting, oranges tumbling. He was beside her instantly.
"Let me help," he said smoothly, already gathering fruit.
"Oh! Thank you, but I've got it—" she protested, flustered.
"All part of the neighborhood service," Ave replied, placing the last orange into his own sturdy canvas tote and handing it to her. "Here, use this."
"But your bag...!" she stammered.
"It's just a bag," he said, his voice calm and sure. He met her eyes with a look that brooked no argument.
"Pass the kindness on when you get the chance. It always finds its way back, somehow." He gave her a final, reassuring nod before turning away. He didn't see the small, determined set of her shoulders as she walked off, clutching the tote.
He checked his grandfather's brass pocket watch. 2:45 PM. St. Agnes. A familiar warmth spread through him.
"Gollum today, I think," he murmured to himself, a playful glint in his grey eyes as he approached the busy intersection near the orphanage. The pedestrian light was red. He hummed softly, picturing the children's faces. "My precioussss... no, too raspy. Needs more... phlegm?"
Then – silence.
Not true silence, but the sudden, chilling void where a child's happy cry should have been. His head snapped up.
Across the street. Frozen in the crosswalk. A tiny girl in pink, clutching a worn teddy bear, tears streaming. Her mother screamed from the sidewalk, raw terror ripping through the urban din.
Ave's gaze snapped left. A massive truck. Driver's head down, phone glow on his face. Red light. No slowing. Physics screamed: Impact inevitable.
No thought. Only action. Protect.
The library books thudded to the pavement. Ave moved like lightning, shoving through bodies. He reached the girl, wrapping her in a protective embrace as he launched them both forward.
"Hold tight!" he breathed into her hair, a split-second command laced with calm urgency.
They tumbled onto the far sidewalk. The girl landed with a soft gasp, bear clutched tight. Safe. Ave sprawled beside her, relief washing over him. He pushed himself up on one elbow, a smile of pure relief starting to form.
"Are you alri—"
The driver had finally looked up. In a panic, he yanked the steering wheel toward the curb. The massive vehicle didn't stop—it lurched, tires screaming as they hopped the concrete barrier, plowing directly into the path Ave had just cleared.
Ave turned his head.
Chrome. A vast, indifferent wall of it filled his vision. The truck's grille rushed at him, a mountain of steel. He saw his own reflection – wide grey eyes filled with surprise, not fear. A smudge of dirt on his cheek. Time crystallized. One clear thought pierced the roar:
She's safe.