Ayan stood at the corner of a busy city street, gazing at the sky. As the afternoon sun shimmered off the towering buildings, Ayan's eyes were fixed on the end-of-the-month calculations. The wallet in his pocket had grown thin, and the date on the calendar told him he would have to live frugally for the next few days.
There is a distinct weight to being the eldest son of a middle-class family. This burden isn't visible from the outside, but it constantly pricks the inside of the chest like an invisible thorn. Between his father's aging spectacle frames, his mother's nearly empty strips of medicine, and his younger sister's request for a new school dress—Ayan himself didn't know when his own hobbies had taken up residence in the dusty corner of a cupboard.
On his way home, Ayan stopped at a shop at the intersection. An expensive guitar was displayed in the showcase. There was a time when he had a great desire to work with melodies and to brighten canvases with a paintbrush. But when reality knocks at the door, the word "passion" feels like a luxury. He let out a deep sigh and headed toward his alley. There, the old house with its tin roof awaited him—a place where dreams might be scarce, but there is no lack of love.