The Beautiful Gate

by Zary Fekete

The phone on the wall rings—white plastic with a red button that lights up when someone buzzes the front door. I already know who it is. Adrian never calls ahead. He just appears. One of that perennial crop of kids from the shelter’s coffeeshop: too young to be in this much pain, too old to pretend they aren’t. I press the button and prop my apartment door open a crack. I hear the rhythm of his sneakers on the stairs…fast and awkward, like he’s apologizing for each step.

He’s not alone.

The girl with him is small and clinging to his arm like he’s gravity. Her face…open, devoted, unreadable. I invite them in, motion to the couch. Adrian stays standing. Says he won’t be long. Says he’s sorry for the intrusion, which means he’s about to ask me for something.

There’s a pause, and then it spills out: welding school. A two-year tech program, full-time. Adrian mumbles it like he’s ashamed of wanting anything, even something practical. There’s a part of me…some weathered, silent corner…that’s already reaching for my wallet. But I ask anyway: how much?

He gives me the number eventually, after a long detour through course descriptions and the promise of school lunches, as though free food might tip the scale. His voice catches just slightly when he says they also give a mid-morning snack.

I nod through his justifications, pull out my wallet. The bills are warm, folded crooked. The girl lets go of Adrian and leans forward…hovering over the cash like she’s afraid it might disappear. Adrian shakes my hand like he means it. Once. Then again. Then a third time. He promises he’ll pay me back.

When my wife gets home that evening, I tell her what happened.

"Do you expect to see it again?" she asks.

I shrug. Not because I don’t care. Just because I don’t know how to answer.

Later, brushing my teeth, I try to calculate the distance between our worlds. The amount I gave him…it’s what I pay for cell data each month. One line on a bill. I spit into the sink and think about how easy it is to hand someone a handful of twenties and feel like I’ve changed something. Like I’ve stepped across the chasm.

I haven’t.

That’s the thing that sticks. The guilt isn’t in giving…it’s in how easy it was.

The money didn’t mean much.

But Adrian did.

BIO: Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary. He has a debut novella (Words on the Page) out with DarkWinter Lit Press and a short story collection (To Accept the Things I Cannot Change: Writing My Way Out of Addiction) out with Creative Texts. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films. Twitter and Instagram: @ZaryFekete Bluesky:zaryfekete.bsky.social