At last a Hero

He considered himself a faceless card: just a number in a suit that is quickly forgotten in the shuffle of moments. The monotony of routine was upon him, inseparable, as light and shadow.
Drawn to the probability of miracles, he sought out with fanatical devotion any mechanism that would define his existence as worthy, but all of his inventions were failures; omens of his irreconcilable affinity to defeat.
He walked streets full of windows meant to look out, but saw in one a child perched on a ledge. He yelled and shouted relentlessly until the child was drawn back inside.