The rooster cried before the sun showed its face. Our house was already awake. I was not. At least I pretended not to be.
I lay on the thin mattress, staring at the wooden roof. The cracks had been there since I was a child. They never changed. Only grew wider. Like the silence in our home.
From the kitchen, I heard firewood breaking. My mother was awake. She always was. Her mornings started before the village even breathed.
Smoke slowly entered my room. It carried the smell of burning wood and boiled rice. A smell I had known my whole life. A smell that felt like home and tiredness mixed together.
I closed my eyes again. Not because I was sleepy. Because I did not know how to face another day of watching them struggle.
My father walked past my room. His steps were slower now. Not loud like before. He used to walk like the ground owed him something. Now he walked like he was asking the ground for permission.
He coughed.
Just once.
But it stayed in my chest longer than it should have.
Mother was already cooking. I could hear the spoon hitting the pot. She hummed the same song she had sung my whole life. Soft. Tired. Familiar.
Same rice.
Same tea.
Same silence.
Nothing new ever happened in our house. Only time moved.
I finally got up.
The floor was cold. My feet were used to it. They had learned not to complain. They had learned that complaining did not change anything.
Mother looked at me and smiled.
Her smile had lines in it now. Deep ones. Like small roads made by years of worry.
“Wake up early today,” she said.
I nodded.
Father sat near the door, tying his old shoes. The lace was thin. One side shorter than the other. He fixed it carefully like it still mattered.
His hands were rough.
Cracked.
Tired.
Those hands built this house. Fed us. Carried sacks heavier than my future.
I stood there doing nothing.
Mother poured tea into our old cups. One had a small crack on the side. We never threw it away. We never threw anything away. Waste was not a word in our home. It was a fear.
Father sipped his tea slowly. His eyes looked far. Not outside. Inside. Like he was counting worries instead of minutes.
Mother packed his lunch. Rice. Salt. A little curry. The same every day.
I wanted to say something.
Help me carry.
Stay home today.
Rest.
I will work.
I will manage.
But my mouth stayed quiet. Because words did not pay loans. And love did not buy rice.
Father stood up.
His back bent a little more than yesterday. He smiled at me.
“Study well,” he said.
I nodded again. That was my job.
Just nod.
He walked out.
The wooden door made a tired sound when it closed. Not loud. Just weak. Like it was also getting old.
Mother watched the door long after he left. Then she turned back to the fire. Like nothing happened. Like everything was fine.
I sat on the floor with my tea getting cold. My chest felt heavy. Not because we were poor. But because I could not change it.
Outside, the village was waking up.
Chickens ran around.
Cows made slow sounds.
Smoke rose from every house.
Everyone was starting another day.
Another day of working.
Another day of surviving.
I watched my mother move around the kitchen. Her steps were small now. Careful. She used to walk fast when I was younger. Now she moved like her body was asking her to slow down.
Her hands shook a little when she lifted the pot.
I noticed it.
She did not. Or maybe she did and chose not to show it.
She poured me more tea.
“Eat properly,” she said.
I nodded.
Always nodding.
Never speaking.
The food tasted the same as always. Simple. Quiet. Not bad. Not special. Just enough to live.
I chewed slowly.
My mind was loud.
I thought about my father carrying loads in the field. I thought about the sun burning his back. I thought about the money he would earn that day. I already knew it would not be enough.
It was never enough.
Loan papers stayed hidden in the wooden box under the bed. But their weight was everywhere. In our food. In our silence. In my parents’ tired faces.
I felt like the loan was my fault.
Not because I signed it.
But because I existed.
If I was not there, maybe life would be lighter for them. Maybe they would not have to work that hard. Maybe they would smile more.
These thoughts came often.
They stayed long.
Mother sat beside me for a moment. She looked at the fire like it was her only friend.
“Your father is getting old,” she said softly.
I knew.
I saw it every day. But hearing it made my chest hurt more.
“He works too much,” she added.
I wanted to say I would help.
I wanted to say I would earn.
I wanted to say I would fix everything.
But I had nothing in my hands.
Only dreams.
Dreams were light.
Too light.
So I stayed quiet.
Mother stood up again and washed the cups. Her back made a small sound when she bent. Not loud. Just a tiny crack.
I heard it.
She pretended not to.
The morning sun finally entered our house through the small window. It touched the walls. It touched the floor. It touched my mother’s face.
Her hair was more white than black now. When did that happen? I had not noticed.
Time moved quietly.
I looked at the place where my father sat. His cup was still there. A little tea left inside. He never finished it. He never had time.
I picked it up.
The tea was cold.
Just like my heart.
I wanted to run after him. I wanted to carry his bag. I wanted to walk beside him. I wanted to tell him he did not have to do this alone.
But I stayed.
Because courage was easy to imagine.
Hard to live.
Mother started cleaning the yard. Sweeping dust that would return tomorrow. Fixing things that would break again.
Life in our village was like that.
Always fixing.
Never finished.
I watched her from the doorway. She looked small against the big sky. Like she was carrying the world on her back.
I felt useless.
Strong feelings lived in my chest. But my hands were empty.
I went back inside and sat on the bed. The roof still had the same cracks. I counted them like always.
One.
Two.
Three.
Each crack felt like a year. I wondered how many years my parents had left.
Not to live.
But to work like this.
My chest felt tight.
I loved them. I just did not know how to help them. And that hurt more than hunger.
