In a small, quiet country village, two siblings lived together in a tiny house at the edge of town—Arora, an 18-year-old girl with kind eyes and worn hands, and her little brother, Sota, who was only eight.
Life had never been kind to them. They had lost their parents when Sota was still too young to remember their voices clearly. From that moment, Arora became more than just a sister—she was his mother, his guardian, his entire world.
Every morning, before the sun stretched its first rays across the rooftops, Arora would be out—selling flowers, helping in small shops, or running errands for neighbors. The pay was never much, but she made it stretch. Some nights, she'd quietly push her own plate aside, pretending she wasn't hungry, so Sota could eat a little more.
And Sota knew. Even though he was just a child, he saw the way her fingers trembled with exhaustion, the way she forced a smile at the dinner table. Sometimes, he lied about eating lunch at school, just to keep her from worrying.
They didn't have much, but what they did have—they shared with love.
One evening, Arora sat by the small wooden table, waiting. The soup on the stove had already gone cold. The sun had long set, and the worry in her chest had turned into a knot of fear.
Then, the door creaked open.
Sota stepped in, his uniform dusty, his hair messy, and small scratches covering his hands.
Arora stood immediately. "Sota! Where have you been? Do you have any idea how late it is?"
"I… I was with my friends," he stammered, avoiding her eyes.
Her voice softened, but only slightly. "With your friends? Then what's this?" She gently held his hand, seeing the scrapes. "And your clothes—what happened?"
Sota forced a small, nervous grin. "A dog chased me on the way home. I tripped, that's all."
"A dog?" Arora raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Hmm. Well, go wash up. I'll get the medicine."
"Y-yes, big sis!" he said quickly, running toward the bathroom.
When the door shut, Arora sighed deeply. "That boy…" she muttered, shaking her head. But beneath her irritation was a wave of affection.
Later that evening, Sota sat cross-legged on the floor while Arora carefully cleaned his wounds. He winced slightly as the antiseptic touched his skin.
"Ow! That stings!" he complained.
"Well, that's what you get for making me worry," Arora said, trying not to smile. "Now, tell me the truth. You didn't really get chased by a dog, did you?"
Sota's lips pressed together. He stared down at his knees. "…They were making fun of you."
Arora froze. "What?"
"The boys at school," he murmured. "They said mean things about you… about how you sell flowers… and I just—I couldn't let them say that! So I fought them."
For a moment, silence hung between them. The only sound was the soft crackle of the oil lamp.
Then, Arora let out a small sigh and smiled faintly. "You silly boy… you didn't have to fight for me."
"But they were wrong!" Sota protested, looking up with fierce eyes. "You work so hard, and they don't even know you!"
Arora touched his cheek gently. "It's alright. Let them talk. Words can't hurt us unless we let them."
Sota frowned, his lip quivering. "Still… I hate when people say bad things about you."
Her heart melted at his words. "And I hate when you get hurt, dummy." She tapped his forehead lightly. "So, no more fighting, okay?"
He nodded slowly. "…Okay, big sis."
"Good." She smiled and wrapped the last bandage around his hand. "Now, go wash your hands and help me set the table. I made soup."
His face brightened instantly. "Yay! Did you put extra noodles in?"
"Of course. I know how much you love them," she said, rolling her eyes playfully.
They ate together quietly that night, the warmth of the meal filling their tiny home. Between spoonfuls, Sota said with a grin, "You make the best soup in the world."
Arora chuckled. "That's just because you're hungry."
"No," he said seriously, "It's because you made it."
She blinked, caught off guard by his sincerity. "You really are growing up fast," she whispered.
Later, as they lay in their small shared room, the moonlight spilling softly through the window, Sota turned to her.
"Big sis?" he said quietly.
"Mm?"
"I miss Mom and Dad," he murmured. "If they were here… you wouldn't have to sell flowers all day."
Arora felt a lump form in her throat. She turned to face him and brushed his hair aside gently. "Hey… if they were here or not, it wouldn't matter. I'd still take care of you. Always."
He smiled sleepily. "You're the best sister ever, big sis. I wanna stay with you like this forever."
Arora's heart ached, but she smiled through it. "Forever, huh? You say that now… wait till you grow up and start running away from home."
Sota laughed softly. "Never."
"Alright, alright," she said, chuckling, "Now close your eyes. You've got school tomorrow."
"Okay… good night, big sis."
"Good night, Sota," she whispered, her voice like a lullaby.
As he drifted to sleep, Arora lay awake a little longer, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Despite the hardships, the hunger, and the exhaustion—she felt peace. Because in that small, quiet home, she still had something more powerful than anything else in the world: love.
The next morning, the golden sunlight spilled through the window. Arora stretched and turned to see Sota still asleep, his hair sticking out in all directions. She smiled and whispered softly, brushing his hair back,
"Wake up, sleepyhead… you'll be late for school."
Sota groaned and buried his face under the blanket. "Five more minutes…"
Arora sighed, grinning. "You said that yesterday too."
"But yesterday it worked!"
She laughed, tugging the blanket gently. "Not today, mister."
And as the little house filled with laughter once more, the day began—just another simple morning in the world of two siblings who had lost everything… except each other.