2

The morning light slipped into the small cave, a thin pale line across the stone floor.

Rayan opened his eyes slowly. His back ached a little — the cave wasn’t the softest place to sleep — but it kept the wind out, and that was enough.

Amira was already awake, sitting near the entrance with her knees pulled close.

She didn’t talk much in the mornings. She just watched the world outside, quiet and calm, as if listening for something only she could hear.

“Did you sleep?” Rayan asked, rubbing his hands together to warm them.

“A little,” she whispered.

He nodded. She said that every morning.

Their mother was at the back of the cave, folding the cloth they used as a blanket. She wasn’t loud, but the slow rhythm of fabric being shaken and folded told Rayan she was tired.

She always woke before them, no matter how cold the night had been.

Breakfast was simple — some dry roots, a few seeds Amira kept counting over and over, more out of habit than hope.

Rayan broke a root in half and handed her the larger piece.

“It’s okay,” she said quietly.

“Take it,” he insisted.

She took it, though her eyes showed she didn’t want him giving away his share.

Outside, the ridge was colder than yesterday. Snow dust clung stubbornly to the rocks, and the mist in the distance moved with its strange, breathing rhythm. It didn’t come close — not today — but Rayan never liked how it shifted.

He wrapped his scarf tighter. “We should go down the slope today. There might be more water.”

His mother hesitated, just for a heartbeat, then nodded.

“Be careful,” she said — the same words she said every morning, every time they stepped outside.

Rayan tested the ground before putting his weight on it. Stable enough.

Amira followed behind him, holding the small cloth bag of seeds close to her chest as if warmth alone might protect them.

They walked in silence. Talking wasted breath, and breath meant warmth. Their voices stayed locked behind their teeth as their pale clouds of breath faded quickly into the cold air.

Rayan’s thoughts drifted, but not toward danger — danger was simply part of life now.

He thought about his uncle instead.

He used to work for him. Hard work, but honest work.

Then something went wrong. A mistake? A misunderstanding? Rayan didn’t know anymore. He only remembered the anger in his uncle’s voice, the harshness in his eyes, and the way people suddenly avoided him afterward.

No one wanted to hire a boy that his own uncle rejected.

No one wanted trouble.

So Rayan left. He took Amira and their mother and found this cave — small, cold, forgotten — far from people, far from whispers, far from doors that kept closing.

Every morning since then was the same: find food, find water, keep moving, keep quiet, keep going.

Halfway down the slope, Amira touched his arm gently.

“Rayan… look.”

Between two rocks, a clean patch of snow sparkled in the thin sunlight.

Rayan let out a slow breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Good,” he murmured. “It’s enough for today.”

They crouched together and gathered what they could, letting the cold melt on their tongues. It wasn’t much — just a moment of relief — but in a world like theirs, moments were precious.

Sometimes, something small was everything.

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