Walking past a sea of faces, you leave its familiarly crowded avenues, towards an uncharacteristically quiet part of the city - The Lower West Side. For all the derelict buildings dotting its streets, the grime on the walls, and the occasional display of abject poverty against decaying remnants of buildings that once housed bankrupt mom-and-pop stores, very few know of a clearing that leads to an abandoned grove.

The bridge leading to the clearing is a welcome change of pace, especially for those who need a breather from the busy monotony of city life. Surrounding it is one of the few patches of greenery remaining in the city. You've most likely never been here before, and you're not quite sure you know how you got here. You stand just before the bridge, but something is stopping you from going any further.

It seems you have company.

Someone is heading towards your general direction.

Never mind that the person is crying, they seem rather absent-minded. As soon as they notice your presence, they wipe their tears, and run away.

You hear a faint thud as you feel something fall close to your feet.

Something beckons you to cross the bridge and see if the grove rumoured to lie beyond The Lower West Side really exists. You feel your stomach churn -- is it your gut telling you that treading in unfamiliar territory is a bad idea for self-preservation, or are you hungry?

Fortunately for you, there are a few joints close by, if you don't mind eating in restaurants with poorly-maintained interiors. None of the options immediately available to you are appealing enough. Either they're established franchise names with menu items you could identify even in a blindfolded taste test, or they'll open a few hours from now. Of course, you continue to scan the people around you for anyone vaguely resembling that person you saw at the bridge.

You momentarily halt upon noticing a long queue close to the road leading back to the financial district, and notice that it curves into what appears to be an alleyway. You walk past the line to investigate what they're lining up for, until you are greeted by a sloppily painted sign reading, "Aunt Barbara, Where Do Broken Hearts Go?" What a mouthful. It takes you a few seconds to notice "Soup Kitchen" more legibly written on the sign. No wonder.

There are people queued up who wear modest, but clean clothing. It does not seem to exclusively cater to the less fortunate or to new migrants, unlike Charity's famed Free Food Kitchen. Your curiosity piqued, you fall in line and flip through the book, hoping to find any form of identification on it. A sticky note falls from one of the pages: You skim through the rest of the pages, until you find a bookmark sandwiched between two blank pages. (click here to view a clearer version of the text)

You spent so little time with that person that you can't recall if they looked like a new migrant. Where could they be from? Shengui Guo? Meneb? Skedhu? You try to remember the clothes they wore. They did not seem to be out of the ordinary, save for what appeared to be bloodstains.

You are interrupted by people shoving you forward as the line moves forward, and rather rapidly, at that. Some people quickly walk away from the soup kitchen with a burrito and a bowl of soup in hand, sitting on the curb or sharing it with friends and family who stayed on the side instead of queuing up. It's nearing your turn, and you also receive the same food as everyone else. The establishment looks like an eatery if you save the inordinately long line. You decide to take a seat and see if the book might have any other pieces of information. While you're at it, you consider giving the number on the note a call.