The Koch's Apartment, 9:30 A.M.
The sun filtered weakly through the cracked blinds, casting uneven stripes of gold across the
faded cream walls. Dust danced lazily in the light, untouched and unbothered. In the modest
apartment she called home, Esmeralda Koch moved through the small kitchen with quiet focus.
Her bare feet made soft taps against the cold floor, and a faint chill clung to the moving air, as
though the wind itself understood their hardship.
She'd boiled water on a rusted camp stove, one burner flickering with defiance, much like her
spirit. Her movements were efficient. No wasted energy. No unnecessary words. Only the
rhythm of someone who had too much to do and not enough time, not enough money, not
enough anything.
Esmeralda was the kind of woman whose presence felt like poetry wrapped in quiet resilience.
Tall and willowy, with smooth caramel skin that caught the morning light like silk, she moved with
the elegance of someone who had once known peace but now walked through life with cautious
grace. Her beauty didn't scream—it whispered. It lingered. It is haunted.
Her deep hazel eyes, flecked with amber, carried the weight of a thousand quiet heartbreaks.
There were shadows under them, carved not just by sleepless nights, but by years of
responsibility, loss, and the unspoken pressure to hold it all together. Yet, those same eyes
softened when they fell on her younger sister.
Donatella sat at the tiny wooden table, her legs swinging back and forth, barely brushing the
ground. The faded pink hoodie she wore—handed down by a neighbor's daughter—hung
loosely on her small frame. The steaming mug of tea in her hands looked too big for her, like a
child playing grown-up. Her pale face glowed slightly in the morning light, though her eyes were
shadowed. Every so often, a cough rattled her chest, and each time, it made Esmeralda flinch.
"You didn't sleep again," Donatella said, her voice soft, too wise for six.
Esmeralda poured a small bowl of oatmeal, her back to the girl. "I'm fine, baby. I had a good
sleep."
"You always say that," Donatella replied, sipping carefully. "You're so bad at lying
smeralda turned, and despite herself, smiled. It was small, but real.
From the hallway, Hyacinth emerged, dragging his feet and yawning in a way that was more
dramatic than genuine. His robe hung off one shoulder like a cloak from an old film.
"What's this?" he said, blinking. "A sad breakfast party and no one invited me?"
Donatella giggled—then coughed. A deep, chesty sound. Esmeralda was beside her in a blink,
hand on her back, eyes flicking with concern.
"I'm fine," Donatella insisted, brushing away the fuss, but the rasp in her voice gave her away.
Hyacinth's grin faded. "Maybe we should take her back to the hospital."
Esmeralda shook her head immediately. "Not unless it's serious. We still haven't paid for the last
visit."
They both knew what that meant. The weight of poverty wasn't just financial—it was a silent
guest at every conversation. Even with Hyacinth's small income from his evening shifts at the
barbing salon and the blessing of a scholarship to the University of Georgia in Atlanta, it was
never enough. Survival was a daily math problem they never had the answers to.
Everything had started spiraling the moment Esmeralda walked away from her restaurant job.
She'd held on for as long as she could, but when her boss started brushing up too close,
cornering her in the back pantry, breathing down her neck with beer-soaked threats—she quit.
Dignity didn't pay the bills, but she couldn't let herself rot in silence.
After breakfast, she tucked Donatella back into bed, brushing the curls from her damp forehead.
Her heart ached watching the girl fade a little more each day. The fire in Donatella's eyes was
still there, but the flame flickered low.
Once Donatella slept, Esmeralda stood before the cracked mirror in their narrow hallway. She
adjusted her blouse. Her reflection stared back at her—elegant, but worn. Strong, but tired. She
pulled her hair into a tidy bun, applied a touch of lip balm, and straightened her shoulders.
Today, she was going job hunting.
---
The city was already alive when she stepped outside. Horns blared. Vendors shouted over each
other. Children darted between street carts with sticky hands. She moved from place to place.
ith quiet hope—stopping at a local café, a receptionist agency, and a bookstore.
Each "no" felt heavier than the last.
"We're not hiring right now."
"You're overqualified."
"We filled that position yesterday."
By noon, her shoes bit at her feet like punishment. Her stomach clenched with hunger, but she
kept walking. She sat on a bench outside the last café she visited, watching strangers live lives
she couldn't imagine. They sipped overpriced coffee and scrolled their phones. A man with
silver cufflinks ordered two croissants he didn't even finish.
Her phone buzzed.
It was Hyacinth.
She answered quickly. "Did something happen?"
"The light is out," he said, voice low. "And... they've shut off the water now too."
For a long second, Esmeralda said nothing. Her mouth opened. Closed. It opened again.
"We'll figure it out," she said, her voice quieter than the city around her.
She let the phone drop into her lap. She didn't move. Her hands stayed still in her lap, her eyes
fixed on nothing in particular. People moved past her—lovers laughing, businessmen barking
into Bluetooth headsets, mothers scolding children for spilled juice.
The city didn't care. It never had.
And in the middle of it all, Esmeralda sat, silent and invisible. Her grief, her exhaustion, her
fear—they wrapped around her like a second skin.
Tears welled in her eyes but did not fall. Crying was a luxury. She couldn't afford to be soft in a
world that required her to be iron.
She thought of her parents, lost in that ghastly car crash just days after Donatella turned two.
One minute, they were driving back from a celebration. The next, two bodies on a highway, and
three lives shattered. Since then, she'd become mother, father, sister, protector, provider. And
right now? She didn't know how much longer she could keep playing all those roles.at night, back at the apartment, the air was heavy with candlelight and unspoken fears.
There was no light—just flickers from wax and the shadows of three figures trying to feel whole.
Hyacinth played a card game with Donatella, who leaned sleepily against his chest. The
laughter wasn't loud, but it was real. That was something.
Esmeralda sat on the floor beside them, her back against the wall, knees pulled up to her chest.
She watched them, memorizing the curve of Donatella's smile, the way Hyacinth gently tucked
the girl's curls behind her ear.
"Will we be okay?" Donatella asked suddenly, voice raspy and soft.
Esmeralda looked up. Her voice didn't shake, even if her heart did.
"Yes, baby. We will. I promise."
She didn't know how. But she had to believe it.
She had to.