Thursday arrived with the same tired rhythm. The sun was already creeping past the dusty blinds when the twins stumbled out of bed, the cramped room too warm, their sleep too short. Nicholas pulled on his school trousers while brushing his teeth, and one eye was still closed. Hannah complained about the missing edge control for her baby hairs, her voice bouncing off the faded posters on their wall.
They attended Aston Academy, a public sixth form college down the road. It wasn't posh, but it had decent teachers and free breakfast bars if you got there early. Nicholas always went quiet during morning prep, sketchbook tucked under his arm. Hannah, however, was loud — always loud — her mouth already forming arguments before they reached the front door.
Peter was gone before anyone else — his shift as a delivery rider started by seven. He wheeled his bike down the stairwell since the lift hadn't worked all week. A parcel bag bounced against his back as he zipped his jacket and shoved in his earbuds. The cracked screen of his phone lit up with a playlist titled "Sky Dreams."
Sarah left last. She tidied up quickly — folded the thin duvets, tucked in the corner of the twins' mattress, checked that Mama's pillbox was where it should be. She greeted the neighbours with a practised warmth as she stepped out: "Morning there, Mrs Winterfold."
The older woman, dragging a shopping trolley full of reduced produce, gave her a tight smile. "Working again, are you?"
"Always," Sarah replied with a shrug and a grin that didn't reach her eyes.
She walked past the chicken shop, the betting store, and the mosque that broadcast the call to prayer every Friday. Her trainers were worn out, soles uneven, but she moved with a kind of quiet grace. Her destination: The Copper Spoon, a modest restaurant on Soho Road where she worked as a waitress.
The place was nice enough — leather booths, dark wood panels, the smell of fried onions, and roasted meat in the air — but the pay was poor. Sarah had been working double shifts all week, picking up after another girl who'd called in sick. "Can't afford to rest," she muttered, tying her apron tightly around her waist.
Her manager, Mr Patel, greeted her with a nod. "You're on the lunch rush again. Table clearing and back kitchen. And remember to smile more, eh?"
She forced a laugh, but inside, she was already counting the hours.
Being mixed race hadn't afforded her any favour in Birmingham. Her skin, slightly darker than what the world preferred, made people hesitate before smiling. Customers sometimes called her "love" with a hint of condescension, sometimes ignoring her altogether.
The other waitresses — all lighter-skinned, with straighter hair and louder laughs — were offered tips and compliments. Sarah was given the harder tables, the rude guests, and the silent assumption that she could endure it.
But she didn't complain. She couldn't. This was about survival. The rent was due in a week. Hannah needed new school shoes. Mama's knee brace was cracking. Peter was behind on his phone bill. Nicholas had been sketching on the back of cereal boxes.
Sarah kept wiping down tables, kept her head down, and kept moving.
The city moved too — indifferent and loud. Buses coughed fumes into the street. Shop shutters screeched open. Somewhere nearby, a siren wailed.
And beneath all of it, Sarah carried the weight of too many prayers and too little peace.