The pickpocket
The pickpocket


The cobblestones of Angora Square were worn smooth by years of travelers’ feet, their rhythm a steady pulse that matched the city’s heartbeat. On any given day, the square was crowded with merchants selling their wares, children chasing pigeons, and tourists lost in the city’s labyrinthine beauty. But for one man, it was simply a place to work.
Soren had learned the art of the pickpocket early. As a child, he’d been quick—quick to run, quick to hide, quick to slip a hand into a pocket and make it disappear. He had honed his skills over the years, growing ever more skilled and elusive, always blending into the crowd, a shadow among the living.
His hands moved almost without thinking now, flicking coins, slipping wallets, pulling rings, with an almost mechanical precision. He wasn’t just good; he was the best. Yet, there was something hollow about it all. The thrill was gone.
Soren had never gotten caught, not once in the years he’d made his living this way. And he prided himself on his discretion, his ability to vanish in plain sight. But that was part of the problem. The people in Angora Square were all strangers, their faces like the endless swirl of leaves in the wind. No one noticed him, not really.
But that morning, something felt different.
A well-dressed man stepped into the square, his coat crisp and clean, his shoes polished to a gleam. He looked like he belonged in a palace, not a crowded city square. He was the perfect target.
Soren trailed him through the crowd, watching as the man fumbled with a pocket watch, glancing at it anxiously. Perhaps late for a meeting, perhaps preoccupied with some worry. Whatever the reason, it made him careless—careless enough for Soren to slip behind him and press his fingers to the man’s coat pocket.
Just as he was about to pull out the wallet, he heard a soft voice, like a whisper in his ear.
“You don’t have to do this.”
Soren froze. He didn’t recognize the voice. His heart skipped a beat.
He glanced up and saw the woman who had spoken—standing across the square, watching him. Her clothes were simple, nondescript, but her eyes… her eyes weren’t ordinary. There was a depth in them, a knowing that made Soren uncomfortable, like she could see through him, past his skill, past his disguise.
The man with the pocket watch continued walking, oblivious to the interruption, and Soren quickly shook off the moment of hesitation. But the woman’s words lingered.
Soren had never been someone to question his work. This was what he did. It was a way to survive, a way to make the world work in his favor. No one was really harmed. People who had money wouldn’t even miss the small things he took, and the rich were always too busy to care about the little things anyw
ay. It was just the game.
But the woman’s words had touched something inside him, something buried deep. He had made a career out of taking things from people—little things, nothing too big. But what did it all add up to? The thrill, the rush, the escape—was it all just an empty chase for something he could never hold onto?
He watched the woman as she moved away, her eyes still on him. Was she following him?
For the rest of the day, Soren couldn’t stop thinking about her. The same scene played over and over in his mind: the woman’s gaze, the soft words, the strange connection between them. It was as though she had seen something inside him, something he hadn’t been willing to face.
That night, Soren couldn’t sleep. He wandered the narrow streets of the city, drawn to an old, familiar tavern where he’d meet his usual contacts, where he’d sell the goods he’d lifted. But when he pushed open the door, he found it empty.
Except for one person.
The woman.
She was sitting at a table in the back, her hands folded in front of her, as though she had been waiting for him.
“How did you know?” he asked, his voice rough with a mixture of curiosity and unease.
She didn’t smile. “I didn’t. I just saw a man who had been running from something his entire life. And I thought, ‘Maybe this is the day he stops.’”
Soren hesitated, unsure whether to sit or leave. “You think I can stop?”
“You’ve been stealing from people for years, but who are you really stealing from, Soren? Yourself?”
Her words stung, but something inside him cracked open. Maybe he had been stealing from everyone—the people in the square, his victims, yes—but most of all from himself. From the man he could have been.
For the first time in years, Soren saw himself clearly. The cold, calculated movements, the empty victories—what did they mean in the end? The life he had lived had never been about survival; it had been about running, about staying one step ahead of who he really was.
He sat down across from her. “What now?”
She looked at him, her eyes soft but unyielding. “Now you have a choice. You can keep running, keep taking, or you can choose something different. Redemption isn’t free, but it’s always waiting. For you to decide.”
Soren didn’t know how to answer. But for the first time, he didn’t feel the need to take anything, to slip his hands into someone else’s pocket. Maybe, just maybe, he could start with honesty.
And for once, he wasn’t afraid to look at what came next