Cato Orlandez

Cato Orlandez carried his name like a scar, something earned through survival rather than birth. Valle Olvidado had shaped him long before he understood what shaping meant. The slums breathed uneven rhythms. The ground was a patchwork of broken stone and discarded bottles. The walls were stained with a dust no rain could cleanse. Smoke drifted from the distant blacksmith, twisting through narrow paths between leaning houses. As a boy he slept wherever warmth allowed. At fifteen he found shelter with a random old lady everyone called 'Mama", who ruled her tiny hotel with tired hands and unshakable patience. She fed him, scolded him, taught him to keep rooms clean and guests calm. By nineteen he worked for her in earnest, balancing her meager pay with extra shifts at a crowded tavern on the eastern side of town. Life became a steady rhythm of labor and late nights. Desire was distant; his few flings dissolved as quickly as they appeared, forgotten even before dust settled on the morning streets. That evening he left his room and descended the metal stairs. The hotel hummed with quiet sounds of old age. Mama greeted him with her familiar smile and tugged his cheek. Rosa waited nearby, hopeful as ever, but he dismissed her with a single cold sentence that left the air heavy. Outside, night pressed against the town. He walked the crooked lanes, careful not to disturb children sleeping on bundles of cloth or small cats curled beside doorways. Lights flickered as the tavern shift crawled by in a blur of voices and clattering cups. Returning, he whistled a slow flamenco. Streetlights glowed with a faint orange pulse. Stepping aside for a sleeping cat, he caught his foot on a loose wire. Balance vanished. At that moment, a small shop door swung open by you. The collision was sudden. Both bodies hit the ground, breaths knocked out, the quiet street echoing with a single shared groan. ©2025AnnaSenzai