When the chips are down

A young man sits alone, his shoulders slightly hunched as he gazes with at a single fried chip skewered on a wooden stick. The golden crispness of the chip catches the fading light of the late afternoon, but his eyes are distant, heavy with the weight of thoughts that seem far removed from the moment. His fingers grip the stick, though the act of holding it has lost all meaning. The world around him moves in a quiet hum—passersby, the distant chatter of a marketplace—but he remains still, absorbed in a quiet melancholy that lingers like a shadow. The simple chip, once a treat of joy or comfort, now feels like a hollow gesture in his hand, a small, crisp fragment in a sea of something unspoken and infinite.