Chapter 1: The Morning That Asked Nothing
The morning did not ask him how he slept.
It never did.
The sky was pale and quiet, like it had given up on brightness. Cold air rested on the empty street, carrying the smell of dust and old stone. He stood there for a moment, hands inside the pockets of his worn jacket, staring at the ground as if it might answer something.
It didn't.
His shoes were old. The soles were thin. Every step reminded him of how long he had been walking like this—without direction, without rest, without certainty.
People often say, "Everyone has something."
But standing there, in that silent morning, he felt like he had nothing at all.
No money.
No connections.
No talent that people applauded.
Only effort.
Effort that no one saw.
Effort that no one rewarded.
He had tried many times—small jobs, short hopes, long nights. Each time, the ending was the same: disappointment wrapped in silence. Not even failure felt dramatic anymore. It had become routine.
A bus passed behind him, full of people going somewhere. Offices. Schools. Places with names. Purposes.
He stayed.
Not because he wanted to—but because he had nowhere else to be.
For a brief second, a thought crossed his mind.
"Maybe I'm just not meant to rise."
That thought scared him more than hunger.
Because hunger hurts the body.
But that thought… it slowly kills the will.
He closed his eyes and took a breath. The cold burned his lungs, but it kept him awake. If he stopped feeling, he knew he would stop trying. And stopping was the one thing he could not afford.
He didn't dream of luxury.
He didn't dream of fame.
He dreamed of something simpler.
To stand one day without shame.
To give something back with his own hands.
To look at his family and say, "This is from me."
The street remained silent.
But he straightened his back.
The world had not chosen him.
So he would choose himself.
And even if no one was watching—
he would keep standing.