The first thing Roy noticed was the smell.
It wasn't the sterile antiseptic of a hospital, nor the stale air of a cheap apartment. No, this smell was more familiar—wet concrete mixed with the stale scent of garbage, the kind of smell that clung to your clothes when you had nowhere else to go. It was the scent of the streets.
He blinked, slowly opening his eyes to a sky that was overcast and gray. He was lying on the ground, a tangle of blankets and old jackets under him. For a moment, it felt like a dream, but the cold seeped into his bones, sharp and real.
The streets.
His throat tightened. He wasn't supposed to be here. He shouldn't be here. He couldn't even remember how he'd ended up in this place.
Roy sat up, his legs stiff, and looked around. This alleyway—this wasn't his. The rough brick walls, the scattered trash, the graffiti—none of it felt familiar. But the sense of disorientation hit him hard. Why didn't it feel familiar? Was this a new spot he'd never come across?
He looked down at his hands. Tiny, soft. Almost childlike. What the hell?
His fingers were short, chubby—his arms were scrawny and not nearly as strong as they should be. It took him a moment to realize: he wasn't in his own body. He was in a kid's body. And not just any kid—someone who had clearly been living on the streets for a long time.
How did I get here?
He couldn't remember much—just flashes of images: a vending machine, a cup of coffee in his hand, a sharp pain, then... nothing. But deep inside, there was this undeniable sense that he was supposed to be somewhere else. In another life. Another world.
But it didn't matter now. He was here, in this body, and that's all that mattered. He couldn't afford to think about the past—about what he'd left behind—or the confusing way it felt like he was trapped in someone else's life.
Roy pushed himself up, trying to shake off the dizziness, stumbling as he found his feet on the cold concrete. The world around him felt... wrong. Like a poorly stitched-together memory, but one he couldn't pull apart. His head throbbed, like the weight of something forgotten.
He had to figure out where he was, how to survive. It wasn't like the streets were new to him; it was just that this body—this kid—wasn't used to them. It felt fragile, like the world could break him if he wasn't careful.
A small sound echoed from the shadows at the far end of the alley. Roy tensed, his instincts kicking in. He knew the streets. He knew the dangers, the people who didn't hesitate to take advantage of anyone weaker than themselves.
But then, from the corner, she appeared.
It was a girl—about his age, maybe a little older. She was wearing a baggy, mismatched outfit, her hair a messy tangle of wild curls. Her eyes were wide and alert, scanning the alleyway like she was used to being on guard. There was something about her that was different from the other kids Roy had seen on the streets, something... odd, but not in a way that made him uncomfortable.
She stepped closer, her footsteps light but purposeful. "Hey, you alright?" Her voice was casual, but Roy could tell there was an edge of concern behind it. She stopped a few feet away, studying him with curiosity.
"You okay? You look like you've been hit by a bus or something."
Roy didn't know how to respond. He felt like he should know her—like something about her face seemed familiar, but the feeling was fleeting. Her presence stirred something inside him, but he couldn't quite place what.
"I... I don't know," he said, his voice thick with confusion. "I... don't remember. Anything."
She tilted her head, still eyeing him closely. "Hmm. That sucks," she said thoughtfully. "Perfect. That means you get to decide who you want to be. That's kinda awesome." She paused, her smile crooked and almost sad. "You want a place to crash for a bit? You look like you need a break."
Roy blinked. He wanted to say no. He wanted to keep his distance, not let anyone get too close. But there was something about the girl—something in the way she spoke, the way she saw him—that made it hard to refuse.
"Sure," he muttered, unsure of what he was agreeing to but knowing he didn't have much of a choice.
The girl nodded, her grin widening. "I'm Phoebe Buffay , by the way. You can call me Phoebe." She stretched out her hand, and Roy hesitated for only a second before shaking it.
"Roy," he said, his voice rough.
Phoebe's smile softened, and for a moment, it felt like they were connected by something deeper than just the streets. Roy couldn't explain it, but he had a strange sense that this was the beginning of something important. The kind of connection that could keep him from getting lost.
For now, that was enough.
Phoebe led the way, weaving through narrow alleyways like she'd been born in them. Roy followed in silence, his bare feet slapping against the cold pavement. Each step felt surreal—like walking through someone else's dream. Or maybe a memory he didn't own.
"You hungry?" she asked over her shoulder, not slowing down.Roy blinked. His stomach gave a low, almost polite growl."I guess."
Phoebe nodded, as if she'd expected that. "Cool. I know a place. The guy there thinks I'm his long-lost niece. I don't have the heart to correct him."
Roy didn't answer, but a faint breath of laughter escaped him before he could stop it. It felt strange, that sound. Like something misplaced returning home.
Phoebe glanced back, catching the smile. "There it is," she said, grinning. "I knew your face wouldn't stay broken forever."
They turned another corner, and the noise of the city filtered in—the hum of distant traffic, the metallic clatter of someone pushing a shopping cart, a dog barking somewhere too far away to care about. It wasn't peaceful, not exactly, but something about it grounded him. It was real.
Roy kept stealing glances at Phoebe. She moved with a confidence that didn't match her ragged appearance. Her oversized sweater hung off one shoulder, and she had a scarf tied around her waist like a belt. She looked like someone who dressed with whatever the wind handed her—and made it work.
"Do you always help random kids in alleys?" he asked.
"No, just the ones who look like they got kicked out of another dimension by accident" she replied, completely serious.
Roy paused, unsure if she was joking. She looked back at him and winked.
"I don't know where I came from," he said quietly. "Everything's... foggy."
Phoebe didn't slow, but her voice softened. "Maybe that's a gift."
He frowned. "Losing everything?"
"Sure. Clean slate. Some people spend their whole lives trying to forget the worst parts of themselves. You got a shortcut."
Roy didn't know how to respond to that. But it stuck with him.
They eventually arrived at a small, run-down convenience store tucked between two buildings that looked like they'd been forgotten by time. Phoebe slipped around the back and knocked on a dented metal door.
An older man answered. Balding, friendly eyes, apron covered in what Roy hoped was flour.
"Uncle Mike!" Phoebe beamed."Phoebe!" the man said, clearly delighted. "You bring me another stray?"
Roy opened his mouth, unsure what to say, but Mike was already turning around. "Sit, sit. I'll fix you both something warm."
Phoebe plopped onto an upside-down crate. Roy hesitated, then sat beside her. The warmth of the back room, the smell of something cooking—it was the first moment since waking up that didn't feel like he was about to fall apart.
Phoebe leaned back against the wall and looked at him sideways. "You don't have to figure it all out today, you know."
Roy looked down at his hands—small, scraped, unfamiliar.
"Then when?"
Phoebe shrugged. "When it stops hurting. Or maybe before that. Or maybe never. Who says you need all the answers to live?"
Roy stared at her for a long moment. For someone who clearly had her own mess to deal with, she sounded like she'd already made peace with it.
The warmth from the food drifted in from the kitchen, and the faint hum of an old radio played something soft and scratchy.
For the first time since waking up in this new body, Roy's breathing slowed. The panic that had curled in his chest all morning loosened, just a little. He wasn't okay. Not yet. But maybe he wasn't entirely lost either.
Phoebe nudged him gently with her elbow. "You're weird," she said. "I like that."
Roy didn't answer, but this time, he smiled without thinking.
The warmth from the small space, the soft clatter of plates from the kitchen, and the fading scent of something sweet cooking—it all wove around him like a blanket he hadn't known he needed.
Phoebe had wandered off somewhere in the back, muttering something about finding spare blankets. He was alone now, curled on a thin mattress pushed against the far wall of Mike's storeroom. The hum of the fridge nearby was oddly comforting, like a lullaby made of real-world noise.
He stared up at the ceiling. There were cracks in the plaster that looked like branching rivers, or veins, or maybe broken maps leading nowhere.
This body.These hands.This life.
None of it fit. And yet… it was all he had.
He closed his eyes. The fear was still there—tight and trembling in his chest—but it had dulled to a quieter kind of ache. Less panic, more ache. He could live with that.
What if this was a second chance?What if he'd been brought here for a reason?Or worse—what if there was no reason?
His mind felt like a shuffled deck of memories—faces he couldn't place, emotions that didn't belong to this boy, and questions with no answers.
"I don't even know who I am," he whispered into the dark.
No one answered. But the silence didn't feel cruel this time. Just patient.
And slowly, between one breath and the next, Roy fell asleep.
A/N :Here phoebe is 2 years older then Roy.