26/01/2026
Chapter One
Small Hands, Heavy Days
Eli was twelve years old, but childhood had loosened its grip on him a long time ago.
In the early mornings, before the heat rose from the red earth and before the village fully woke, Eli was already on his feet. The rooster’s cry usually found him awake, sitting on the edge of the thin mattress, listening to his mother’s breathing from across the room. Some days it was steady. Other days it sounded like work.
Those were the days he moved faster.
Their home was small—mud walls smoothed by hand, a tin roof that rattled when the wind passed through. Everything they owned fit inside it, and everything they loved fit inside it too. There was no father anymore, no older relatives close enough to help. Just Eli, his mother, and his little brother.
School used to start at this hour.
Eli used to walk with other children, a book tucked under his arm, dust clinging to his sandals. But that was before his mother became sick—before standing became difficult, before cooking and washing and even lifting a child became too much for her body.
Now, Eli stayed home.
He knelt by the small charcoal stove, blowing gently until the coals glowed. He boiled water and crushed ginger with the back of a spoon, careful not to waste any. His mother could barely keep food down most days, but warm tea helped her breathe easier.
In the corner, Noah stirred.
Noah was two years and eight months old, all soft curls and unsteady feet. He woke calling for Eli more often than not, small hands reaching for the only constant he knew.
“I’m here,” Eli whispered, lifting him. “I’m here.”
Noah pressed his face into Eli’s shoulder, already trusting the day to be handled for him.
Their mother lay on a mat near the wall, her body thinner than it should have been, her eyes too large in her face. She smiled when she saw them, though it cost her something.
“You should be in school,” she murmured, like she always did.
Eli shook his head gently, the way he did every time. “Later,”
