Samuel stood by the counter with his receipt trembling in his hands. The numbers stamped in blue ink still felt unreal, like an accusation pressed onto paper. By the time the clerk gave him a reluctant nod, he had nothing left—nothing but a rattling handful of coins and the weight of what he'd given away.
When the nurse rolled his mother toward him, she looked smaller than he remembered, as though the hospital bed had swallowed half her strength. Her cheeks had hollowed, her gown hung too loose on her body. The woman who once filled their tiny home with laughter now leaned heavily against the armrest, her breathing shallow and stubborn, as if refusing to admit defeat.
Samuel tried to smile as he took the handles of the wheelchair, but it came out strained.
As they passed through the corridor, the staff barely looked at them. The few who did regarded them with the mild irritation one reserves for a prolonged inconvenience.
Finally removed.
The receptionist's eyes skimmed them the way one might glance at a stain. Samuel kept his head forward, forcing himself not to absorb the silent verdicts.
Outside, the sunlight felt wrong—too bright, too warm for the bruises still purple on his mother's skin. The city pressed in with its indifferent rhythm: taxi horns, vendors calling, a dog barking somewhere in the distance. He wheeled her carefully down the uneven sidewalk, every jolt of the chair pulling a quiet wince from her.
They had no place to return to now.
They were starting again with less than nothing.
Samuel scraped together what he could—the last of his savings, plus the eighty-five Tomas sent after Samuel swallowed his pride and made the call. It wasn't enough to buy security, only to rent the illusion of it.
The landlord was waiting that evening, arms folded across his belly, eyes half-lidded with disdain. His office was little more than a stool outside a crumbling block of rooms, the paint the color of old smoke. Samuel handed over the bundle of bills, his fingers reluctant to release them.
The man didn't take it at first. He looked Samuel over, then his mother, still seated in the chair behind him, her face pale in the darkening light.
Then, slowly, he accepted the money.
He counted once, then again. Each flick of a note stung Samuel like a slap, dragging out the moment, underscoring how fragile his offering was.
"This is three months," the landlord muttered, finally sliding the bills into his breast pocket with a look of faint amusement. "Not a day more."
Samuel nodded.
He could feel his mother watching, her silence heavy with shame, though she tried to keep her chin lifted. He didn't look at her. He couldn't.
When the key was finally dropped into his palm, Samuel felt none of the relief he expected. It was cold metal, heavy for its size, and it carried with it the bitter knowledge that they had bought only a corner of survival—nothing more.
The room smelled of rot and damp wood. A cracked ceiling leaked whenever the rain came, and even when it didn't, the stink of mildew lingered, seeping into blankets, into clothes, into skin.
Samuel's mother slept longer these days, curled like a question mark on the thin mattress. Her body was bruised more by memory than flesh. At night, he heard her whispering to herself, sometimes apologizing to no one.
Samuel tried to hold the weight of both of them.
He went to the market. He stretched coins until they tore. He carried buckets of water until his hands blistered. But each day, the walls seemed to press tighter, reminding him of everything he'd lost.
Rent gnawed at him. Hunger stalked him. And in the silence, he felt the hot, restless pulse of rage—at his mother's weakness, at the man who had broken her, at himself for being stuck in this place with nothing but debt and ghosts.
The night of the second trip, Samuel's chest burned with anger more than need.
It wasn't enough to scrape coins anymore.
He wanted what was his.
What had been stolen from him and his mother when that man kicked them out.
The house sat in silence, larger than it looked in memory, its windows blank like eyes that refused to meet his gaze.
Samuel didn't sneak.
He walked through the gate like he owned it.
His eyes narrowed at the familiar lines of the shed, the place where the remnants of their lives had been dumped. He didn't hesitate this time. He wasn't a boy sneaking for scraps.
He was reclaiming what was theirs.
The shed door protested with a rusty groan as he pushed it open. The air inside carried the must of damp cardboard and old fabric. Boxes and bags tumbled under his hands as he sifted through them with sharp, impatient movements, his fingers brushing over his mother's things. Each item tugged memories loose—bitter reminders of the life the man had tried to erase.
Samuel muttered curses, low and thick, addressing the empty yard, imagining the man lurking somewhere beyond the walls.
Balancing the heaviest bags against his chest, Samuel set off down the street. He could almost feel the man's presence crawling along the edges of the alleyways, the way a predator lingers in the periphery.
But Samuel didn't falter.
The anger pulsing through him was a fire he refused to let go out.
Then came the men, emerging from corners. They came at him fast—fists and boots, a blur of metal rings and spit. Samuel met them with fists and kicks, dodging a blow that could have sent him sprawling. He cursed them, mocked them, letting every word carry the promise that he would not bow.
Each strike he endured only sharpened his resolve.
He didn't fight for pride.Not for ego.
He fought for his mother.For their small, reclaimed pieces of a life that had been stolen.
When the last of them drew back, laughing and sneering, Samuel stood amid torn paper and scattered belongings. His chest heaved, sweat stung his eyes. His body ached from bruises and cuts, but he gripped the bags tighter, unwilling to let even a fraction of it fall.
His gaze swept the street—empty now, silent.
By the time he dragged the load back to the slum, his knuckles were raw. His lips were split, his breath jagged.
His mother stood in the doorway, her eyes wide with fear and shame at the sight of her son broken open again for her sake. Samuel dropped the things at her feet—clothes, a few dishes, a cracked photograph frame—and for a moment, he didn't know whether it was victory or defeat he was handing her.
The room swallowed them again, heavier now, filled with bruises and salvaged scraps.
Samuel sat against the wall, chest heaving. His mother remained silent, except for the thin sound of her breathing.
The shadows in the room felt permanent.