The Scotsman's Trade Chapter 6 –Lior's Eyes

The Scotsman's Trade 

Chapter 6 –Lior's Eyes

The next morning the city is still half-dreaming, frost glittering on the on the streets like spilled salt. Lior wakes before the sun, the midnight-blue journal heavy against his ribs, the embossed running boy already warm from his heartbeat. He doesn’t plan to go back to The Exchange; the alleyways simply decide for him. They always do.

Stomp. Breathe. March. Today the rhythm is off by half a beat, as if the city itself is listening for something.

The Art Deco doors are already ajar. Inside, the great hall is quieter than last night’s carnival. Lanterns have burned low; someone has swept the letterpress confetti into careful spirals on the floor. The air smells of cold coffee, solder, and something faintly feline.

And there he is.

Kelly (the Scot, not the Siamese) leans against a scarred wooden counter, a smooth stone in one hand while the other scratches behind the ear of a soot-dark cat who definitely was not here yesterday. Hair wavier than Lior remembers from those half-second glances in doorways. Leather jacket patched with constellations of safety pins, boots that have walked farther than most countries. The cat (the very same Siamese sentinel from Berta’s kitchen) narrows sapphire eyes at Lior, then butts his head against Kelly’s wrist as if to say, He’s expected.

Lior stops a few paces away. For the first time, their eyes lock and hold.

Kelly’s are the green of old sea-glass, flecked with gold that catches the lantern light. There is no surprise in them, only recognition, the kind that happens when two people have been walking parallel alleys for years and the walls finally thin enough to see through.

“Morning, Piggy,” Kelly says, voice low and lilting, the Highlands curling around every vowel like smoke. The grin is in the eyes alone. “Thought you might bring that journal back before the ink dried.”

The nickname lands soft as owl-down and sharp as a fishhook. Lior feels eight years old again, wheat brushing his bare calves, someone older and safer calling him that while the long shadows were still miles away.

“I didn’t know you came here,” he replied.

“Only when the cat drags me.” Kelly lifts the Siamese and sets him on the counter. “He says there’s a boy leaving silver threads in the cracks again. Says the threads taste like tears that haven’t decided whether to fall yet.”

Lior’s hand tightens on the journal. Kelly notices, pushes off the counter, closes the distance until Lior smells woodsmoke, salt, and storm clouds.

“Easy. I’m not here to collect. Just to trade.”

He pulls out a single scarlet thread, bright as fresh blood, frayed at both ends, and lays it on the table between them like an offering.

“One memory,” Kelly says. “The first time you ever left a silver thread for a child who wasn’t you. I’ll give you the story of why this red one’s been following me since I was nine.”

The hall holds its breath. Somewhere a knife-thrower laughs at her own miss. The letterpress clacks once, like a heartbeat.

Lior opens the journal to the first blank page. “Deal.”

They claim the low table in the corner where the light is softest. Two chipped mugs of tea steam between them like a small campfire. The Siamese circles twice, then drapes himself across Kelly’s boots, satisfied.

Kelly begins.

“When I was nine my da’ walked out on a Tuesday and never came back. Found a wee girl crying behind the bins, pigtails coming undone, knees scraped raw. She’d run from her uncle’s flat. Bad man. Bad hands. Didn’t have money or big words. Just Mam’s red embroidery thread. Tied it round the girl’s wrist and told her it was a warrior thread. As long as it stayed on, the bad couldn’t follow. She believed me. Slept in our stairwell till the social came. Years later she sent a letter—she’d kept the frayed bits sewn into her school bag. Been carrying replacements ever since. Red for the ones who need to remember they’re warriors.”

He shrugs, crooked grin flickering. “Never knew who picked them up… until the cat started pointing at silver glimmers in the cracks.”

Lior’s turn. He writes as he speaks, pen scratching like wheat in wind.

“I saw a boy smaller than me hiding under a market stall, clutching a torn teddy. Eyes like the shadows. Didn’t have thread then—so I grabbed a strand of my hair and handed it to him: This catches tears before they fall. He was gone by morning. I started leaving mirror shards, tinsel, foil from sweet wrappers after that. Silver threads of care. Never saw a face twice. Just knew someone needed catching.”

He turns the journal. Two small drawings: scarlet knot, silver shard. Words beneath like roots.

Kelly reads aloud, voice soft: First trade: red for the warriors we were. Silver for the tears we caught.

He reaches across and ties the scarlet thread around Lior’s left wrist, right over the pulse. Simple, strong knot.

“For the boy who ran through wheat. So the shadows know you’re a warrior now, too.”

Lior pulls a tiny roll of silver threads from his pocket—emergency ones carried for years—and loops one through the scarlet, binding them. Ties it around Kelly’s wrist in return.

“For the boy who mended kilts with hope. So you never walk alone again.”

The cat leaps onto the table, inspects both wrists, sniffs once, and begins to purr: low, rolling, gentle thunder. The sound fills the space between their heartbeats until it feels like one shared rhythm.

Kelly laughs, quiet and wondering. “We’ve gone and braided ourselves a proper lifeline, Piggy.”

Lior smiles—small, crooked, real. The first in longer than he can remember.

“Looks like.”

They sit in the purr and the steam a while longer. Outside, frost begins to melt. Inside, two guardians who have been leaving care in doorways for years finally have someone to walk the alleys with.

The scarred woman glances over, sees the braided wrists, and nods once—satisfied, like a weaver watching her threads find their pattern.

The journal lies open, second page waiting. Lior realized something, for the first time, he opened up to a stranger with ease.

The day has only just begun, and the silver and scarlet are already strong enough to hold a whole damn life.

Author's/Artist's Note: As a disabled survivor using assistive technology, which changes day by day pending health and that day's needs- (#zebralife), I pour these chapters from my own experiences and the people I've met along the path of life. Assistive tech helps me myriad of ways present my message. If Lior's eyes reflect your shadows, reach out—resources like RAINN or Support for Men at 1in6.org are lifelines. What's next? Comments welcome, always.