The night was quiet, the kind of quiet that carried a weight of comfort. Shadows from the flickering oil lamp stretched across the clay walls of the small house, brushing over the faces of the gathered family. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of woodsmoke and the faint sweetness of bread baked earlier in the evening.
They were poor, but together.
The boy sat cross-legged on the floor, his hands folded tightly, his lips moving in unison with his parents and siblings. His father's voice, deep and steady, led the family in prayer. His mother's softer tones followed, carrying a tremor of devotion. Around him, his younger siblings whispered earnestly, their small voices filling the spaces between.
The boy tried to focus, but his mind wandered, as it often did. His father was strong, even after long days of labor, his mother gentle yet unyielding in faith. They carried burdens without complaint. He, however, felt untested—seventeen years old and uncertain if he could ever bear what they bore. When he caught his reflection in the brass water pot earlier, he had seen nothing but a thin, awkward face staring back. He did not yet see a man.
Would I ever be like Father? Could I ever protect them if I had to?
The prayer ended with a unison whisper of Amen, and his mother's hand brushed the hair from his youngest sister's face. The boy smiled faintly, warmth swelling in his chest. These were the moments he treasured most—the quiet, the closeness, the fragile peace of family.
The peace shattered with a pounding on the door.
Three heavy knocks, sharp and merciless, rattled the wood in its frame.
The siblings gasped. His mother froze mid-motion, her hand trembling. His father's face hardened instantly, shadows deepening in his furrowed brow.
The pounding came again, louder. Then a voice—rough, impatient. "Open the door!"
The boy's heart began to pound so hard he thought it might burst. His father raised a hand, signaling for silence. He rose slowly, placing himself between the door and his family.
"Who comes at this hour?" he called, his voice strong though a flicker of unease hid beneath it.
The answer was not words but a violent kick. The door shuddered against its hinges. His youngest sister whimpered, burying her face in their mother's lap.
"Stay with them," his father whispered quickly, his eyes cutting to the boy. "No matter what happens, stay with them."
The boy swallowed hard and nodded, though fear coiled in his stomach like a living thing. He obeyed, pulling his siblings close as their mother wrapped her arms around them.
The third blow broke the door wide, wood cracking, the metal latch snapping free.
And there they stood.
Three men in black—faces shadowed beneath hoods, their clothing heavy and worn. In the weak lamp glow, they seemed less like men and more like demons come to collect a debt. Weapons glinted in their hands: a rusted knife, a wooden club, and a gun that caught the lamplight like a serpent's fang.
The intruders stepped inside, filling the room with menace. One shoved the broken door wider with his boot. Another grinned with missing teeth. The one with the gun leveled it casually at the father.
"Money," he barked. "All of it. Now."
The boy's stomach twisted. His siblings clung to him. His mother shook her head, whispering prayers beneath her breath. His father squared his shoulders and said, firm but quiet, "We have nothing."
The club came down hard against his father's ribs. The crack echoed through the house. His mother screamed. The boy's blood ran hot.
The father fell but rose again, clutching his side, refusing to yield. "We are poor," he gasped. "We have nothing to give."
The man with the gun pressed the barrel against his forehead. "Don't lie to me."
The boy's hands trembled as he held his siblings tighter. Rage built inside him, thick and choking. His father was strong, yes, but even strength had limits. He could do nothing but watch, helpless, as the demons in black turned their wrath upon the man he admired most.