At five-thirty in the morning, the light is the color of cinnamon.
It isn't orange. It isn't golden. It's something between honey and rust—a light that slips in behind cheap buildings and over trailers packed tight like tin cans forgotten at the edge of the world.
It gets into my eyes as I step off the bus, with the smell of smoke caught in my hair and legs that still carry the bar's music in their bones. The bass rings in my ears, and my mouth tastes like mint mixed with alcohol.
My name is Alla, and I lie to everyone that I'm nineteen. In reality, I'm seventeen, counting the months until I turn eighteen.
That's the easiest way. That's how I can earn an honest buck at the strip club where I work as a bartender. If you're good enough at what you do, nobody cares to check. All that matters is bringing money into the house, and I'm the best at that. People keep the right distance from me: they don't see me as a girl anymore, but as a solution that works.
I don't regret lying. Guilt is a luxury I can't afford.
My soles hit the gravel of the alley, and I hear the trailers creaking in all their joints, as if they're breathing heavily in their sleep. In our neighborhood, even the houses look tired. The dogs are old. And the children learn too early not to look for too long.
I reach my favorite part of the walk and slow down. On the other side of the street, there's that house. I smile without meaning to and imagine, again, things I've never had.
The house with the light on at this hour, every single morning, is the most beautiful house in the world. Small, with windows dressed in white, clean curtains, and one corner always fogged over, as if someone were drawing there with a finger.
And just as I reach it, the smell hits me—gentle and violent at the same time.
Cinnamon pancakes.
I close my eyes for a second, without meaning to, and I imagine a warm plate, a stack of thick pancakes with lightly browned edges, melting butter and brown sugar. I imagine a glass of cold milk. I imagine a woman's voice saying:
— Did you sleep well?
I imagine someone asking me without judging.
Then I lie to myself, like every morning, telling myself I'm enough on my own.
Not for her daughter. Not for the child who's probably fidgeting in soft, printed pajamas, rubbing sleep from her eyes and burying her nose in the cinnamon smell like it's a blanket.
They're for me.
Only… I don't climb the steps. I don't knock on the door. I don't go in.
I settle for the air. For the illusion, as if illusion could keep you fed.
I keep walking.
Our trailer sits at the end of the alley, close to the rusted fence. It's number 27, but the 2 is half-peeled off, so if you look too fast, it looks like 7. As if the universe had said, "Either way, it doesn't matter here."
I step onto the front stair and the wood creaks. I hold my breath. Any sound can set something off.
Inside, the air is thick. Sweetish, sharp. The smell of old sweat, cheap perfume, and something chemical—pills, powder, solutions. On the small kitchen table there's a half-empty bottle of vodka, a crushed pack of cigarettes, an overturned glass, and a plate with something that used to be food.
My mother is asleep on the couch.
If you can call it sleep.
She's sprawled in an impossible position, one arm dangling, her mouth slightly open. Her face is a puzzle of shadows. Her cheekbones still carry, in places, the memory of beauty. In old photos—ones I keep hidden in a box—she was the kind of woman people turned around to look at twice on the street. Now the drugs have stolen everything: her skin, her gaze, her health.
In the bedroom, my sister is asleep.
I slip in quietly and turn on my phone's flashlight, covering it with my palm so I don't wake her. She's curled under the blanket, knees pulled to her chest, like a small animal defending itself in its sleep.
I pull the blanket higher, up to her chin.
"Are you okay?" I whisper.
Maybe I'm saying it to her. Maybe I'm saying it to myself…
Behind the door, on the floor, is my bag of cinnamon sticks. I take one out and bring it to my nose. The smell is dry and warm. I bite down. Crunch.
The taste is bitter at first, then it warms and sweetens, then it burns again. Like a good story told badly.
A noise comes from the living room. A whimper.
"Alla…?"
My mother.
"Yes," I say quietly. "I'm here."
"Do you have money?"
"No."
"Your father called. He's coming."
My stomach tightens.
"If he comes, I'm calling the police."
She laughs.
"You're an idiot," she tells me. "He's your father and my husband. I want him home."
She tries to look imposing, but she's a wreck. She's standing upright only because she's leaning against the wall, and her voice trembles beneath the big words. I feel like crying, but I don't. If I cry, I lose. There's no room for tears here.
Dad is a drunk, just as bad as Mom. The kind of man whose smell enters the house before he does—old alcohol, sweat, and anger. He comes only to make a scene, slam doors, scream about things that no longer matter, and steal whatever money he finds. Which is, almost always, my money. Money earned at night, with a fake smile fixed on my face and my hands always busy, because I'm the only one in this house who works.
I count the months until I turn eighteen. I carve them out of myself one by one, like pieces of time that simply have to pass. I count them like steps toward an exit, toward air. I plan to run away with Elena, my little sister. To take her hand and never look back. To escape for good from this pit that's swallowing us slowly.
I'll do whatever it takes to leave. Whatever.
I'm too tired to argue with my mother, and anyway, it would be useless. Whatever I'd say would get lost inside her before it ever reached where it needed to go. I save my energy for later, for when my father comes, because I know I'll need it. Here, survival is a simple calculation: you don't waste anything on what can't be changed.
I go to bed and lie down without taking my clothes off. The mattress creaks, the bed is too small, but it's the only place where I can let my guard down for a few hours. I close my eyes and breathe deep.
I imagine cinnamon pancakes. Their warmth. The smell filling a clean kitchen. I imagine I'm a completely different person—someone who matters, someone who's waited for in the morning, someone who's loved without having to prove anything.
I fall asleep with that thought. For a little while. Just long enough to gather strength.
Because I know one thing for sure: mornings that smell like cinnamon aren't meant for people like me. But one day they will be. And then they won't be something I only dream of so I can fall asleep.