The sunset was gloomy, with the faint light of death seeping through the cracks in the window, adding to the already oppressive atmosphere of the dimly lit room.
The so-called "floor" was hard-packed dirt, with the driest spot by the wall occupied by a crooked wooden shelf, upon which sat a few clay bowls and jars, showing obvious repair marks. The rust-black iron pot hanging above the hearth was the most valuable possession in the house.
Dinner had ended not long ago, and the aroma of food still lingered in the air.
But the family gathering, which should have been lively, at that moment was filled only with silence.
No one spoke.
The father sat alone by the coarse wooden table in the center of the room, his head bowed as if he was carving something, making a rustling sound, with a furrowed brow;
The older brother huddled in the corner of the house, sharpening his machete over and over again, yet still repeating his motions;
