poor light saller

In the dimly lit alleys of Old Town, a man known only as Jax whispered through the shadows. With each rustle of his worn cloak, he seemed to gather the darkness, twisting it into something tangible. Jax was a light seller, a curious and rare profession, especially as the city plunged deeper into economic despair. Business was scarce, but every now and then, a desperate soul would seek out the glow only Jax could summon from his mysterious satchel. Tonight was one such night. A cold wind sighed as Elara, a young seamstress, found Jax leaning against the brick walls under a flickering lamp post. Her eyes, wide with uncertainty, darted around before settling on the shadowed figure. "I need a light," she murmured, her voice barely rising above the wind. With a nod, Jax opened his bag, revealing tiny vessels filled with bottled light—amber twinkles, sapphire gleams, and emerald glows. Each whispered promises of warmth and guidance. Elara hesitated, her fingers brushing over the fragile containers. She knew the choice was significant, more than just color—it was hope. Finally, she chose a gentle, silver luminescence. Jax smiled—a rare sight—and exchanged the light for a handful of coins. As Elara walked away, she felt the soft glow seep into her heart, carrying with it a promise of new beginnings. As morning washed over the city, Jax vanished into the remnants of night, an unseen guardian of those lost in the dark.