I live in a mansion far from the city, so I walk for hours every day to attend those boring classes. You might wonder how a poor person lives in a mansion. Let me change your perspective: the building is over five centuries old. It's the only thing my family has passed down, along with a few other items I never bothered to examine—they won't help me anyway. It's said that we were a powerful family once, but I have no idea how we ended up like this. Most likely, my grandfather lost a trivial bet or squandered his wealth on women, because, in the end, all the rich are fools.
Finally, I reached home, and there was Samir, our family's servant, opening the door for me. He's truly kind, taking care of us even after my parents' death without expecting anything in return. He says he owes my family this, but I honestly don't understand why. His family has served ours for generations. I try to help him sometimes because he's old now, but he insists on doing everything alone. Me, him, and my little sister, who is eight, are my real family. The rest of the world does not concern us.