Mercelles

Mercelles was a humble custodian.

Quiet hands. Soft steps.

A soul stitched with pride.

He polished the floors like they were promises,whistled as he worked

like life was some forgotten Disney sceneplaying just for him

Everyone liked Mercelles.

No one had a bad word to say.

He’d smile and nod,“Morning, Mister Nick,”

he’d say,every day,

as if my name deserved respect just for showing up.

But Mercelles had a secret.

He saved his money with the precision and focus.

Each dollar folded like a dream in his worn wallet.

And once a year, just once, he vanished.

Vegas.

King suite at the finest hotel.

A limo waiting at the curb.

The driver opening the door and saying,“Welcome, Mister Mercelles.”

He dined at Michelin-star restaurants,left generous tips like he owned the place.

For one week, he lived like royalty, not pretending, but remembering he had always deserved it.

Then Monday came.

And there he was

back at work.

Back to his broom.

Back to his whistle.

Still saving, still smiling,

still Mister Mercelles.