The wind always tasted like dust on the outskirts of city. It carried the sting of sand against the skin, the smell of rusted metal drifting from the factories to the east, and the tired sigh of a city that had nothing left to give to those who lived beyond its walls. Mira had grown used to it. She had grown used to many things no child should ever become familiar with hunger, fear, and the heavy silence of a home that no longer dared hope.
Their shack sat crooked on uneven earth, patched together with wood scraps her father had scavenged from the scrapyards years ago. The roof dipped low, threatening to cave in at every storm, and the windows were covered with cloth stitched from old shirts. Still, it was home. Fragile, worn, but strong enough to keep out most of the cold at night. Drea had learned to think of it as a living thing, breathing with them, struggling with them, surviving with them.
At dawn that morning, the sky was the color of bruised violets. She knelt beside the fire pit, feeding it with twigs and dried grass, coaxing the flames to life. Her mother sat against the wall nearby, rubbing her swollen belly in slow circles, trying to soothe the restless child inside.
"Is it kicking again?" Drea asked, her voice gentle.
Her mother nodded, a faint smile flickering across her lips. "He's strong. Too strong. Maybe he knows he must be ready for this world sooner than he should."
Drea pressed her lips together. She didn't like when her mother spoke like that half joking, half afraid. Fear had become a constant guest in their home these past months, its presence felt more keenly since her father's debts had grown beyond anything they could repay.
Her father stepped into the room then, limping a little, carrying two small sacks of grain slung over his shoulder. The morning light caught the strands of gray in his hair, making him appear older than he was. Drea stood quickly.
"You went out before sunrise," she scolded softly. "You should rest more."
He chuckled. "Your old father still has some strength left. Don't bury me yet."
She tried to smile back, but the expression wouldn't come.
He set the sacks on the table, leaning heavily on it afterward. His hands trembled slightly, and though he tried to hide it, Drea noticed everything. She saw how his breath caught in his chest, how his eyes darted toward the window every few seconds as if expecting someone to appear.
The debtors!
They came like shadows silent, merciless, always collecting, never forgiving. Her father had once been a proud metalworker, but after losing his job in the factory collapse, he had borrowed what he needed to protect his family from starvation. Only the city didn't tolerate weakness, and lenders rarely tolerated delays. What should have been a temporary rescue had become a noose around their necks.
"Father," Drea began carefully, "do you think--"
A knock cut through the room.
Her mother stiffened. Her father's face drained of color. Drea's heart fell into her stomach.
The knock came again slow, deliberate, like the beat of a war drum.
"No," her father whispered. "Not today. Not this early."
Her mother clutched her belly, eyes squeezed shut. "Please, not yet… I'm not ready…"
Drea stepped back, her hands cold, her breath trapped in her throat as her father forced himself to the door. He paused before touching the handle. For a moment, she thought he might try to run. But where could they go? The outskirts offered nowhere to hide, and the city guards patrolled everything beyond.
He opened the door.
Three men stood there, dressed in long dark coats, their faces hard and unreadable. One held a ledger. Another held a blade.
The man with the ledger spoke first. "Liam Hale. You missed your payment. Again."
Drea's father bowed his head slightly. "I just need more time. My wife is due any day now. We're barely surviving on what little I can."
"Time," the man repeated, flipping a page. "You've had plenty. Deadlines passed. Warnings given. Enforcement required."
Drea moved instinctively to her mother's side, grasping her trembling hand.
"Please," she begged, "we just need--"
But the man did not even glance her way. He nodded to the one with the blade.
"No!" her mother gasped, trying to rise, but pain lanced through her body and she collapsed back against the wall.
Her father lowered his head. Drea had never seen him look so small. His words trembled as he spoke. She know what was coming. Time played in a slow motion as her father uttered the words. "I'm begging you. Don't do this in front of--"
The blade flashed.
The world blurred.
Drea screamed.
Her father fell to his knees, then to the dust, a pool of red spreading beneath him. It happened so quickly that her mind refused to understand. One heartbeat he stood there alive, trembling but breathing, belonging to her and the next he was nothing but a broken shape on the ground.
Her mother's cries turned into guttural sobs. Drea couldn't move. Her whole body froze, as if fearing that any sudden motion might make the moment real.
The men stepped over her father's lifeless form as if stepping over a fallen sack of grain.
"Your family now owes the remaining balance," the man with the ledger announced coldly. "Failure to settle your debts will result in further collection measures."
They turned and walked away, their boots leaving dark prints in the dust. No one came to help. No one dared.
For a long time, Drea stared at the door even after they were gone, her breath shallow, her ears ringing with her mother's hysterical sobs. She didn't remember falling to her knees. She didn't remember crawling to her father. She only remembered touching his cheek, already cooling, and realizing nothing she did could bring him back.
Her father was buried at sunset behind the shack, beneath the lone dying tree that had once shaded them during summer. Drea placed a handful of stones atop the grave to keep the dogs away. Her mother knelt beside her, silent, hollow-eyed.
The baby kicked violently in her belly, as if protesting the sadness smothering the air.
"He should grow up knowing his father," her mother whispered. "He should have had someone to protect him…"
Drea looked at the mound of dirt and swallowed the lump in her throat. "He will. I'll protect him."
Her mother brushed a shaking hand through Drea's hair. "You've already protected too much for someone so young."
But that was life on the outskirts: children grew old long before their time.
The next days blurred together. Drea gathered water from the communal pump, cooked whatever scraps she could find, and sat with her mother through long nights of pain. She listened to the whispers of neighbors outside, the ones who pitied them but never helped; the ones who said Liam should have never taken such a dangerous loan.
None of them understood. Hunger had a way of pushing people off ledges they never meant to step near.
Then, one stormy night, the baby came.
Her mother screamed through the labor, gripping Drea's hands tightly, sweat pouring from her brow. The roof rattled under the weight of rain. Wind howled through the cracks. Mira worked quickly, remembering everything an elderly neighbor had once taught her about childbirth.
Then, finally, a cry pierced the room. A new, fragile, yet powerful.
"It's a boy," Drea whispered, tears streaking down her cheeks as she placed the tiny child in her mother's arms.
Her mother let out a broken laugh, pressing her nose to the baby's soft skin. "Your brother… your brother is here…"
For a brief moment, only a moment of happiness flickered through the gloom like a spark too delicate to last.
But it didn't last.
The next morning, before the sun had fully risen, the shadows returned.
Three different men this time. And they did not knock.
Drea froze when they pushed open the door. Her mother clutched the newborn tightly, fear swelling in her swollen eyes.
"No," her mother breathed. "Please.... not my children."
"We're not here for the girl," one of the men said. "We're here for you."
Another added, "Your husband's debt transferred to you upon his execution. You will work for the Syndicate until it is fully repaid."
Her mother shrank back, tightening her hold around the baby. "I just gave birth. I can't leave my children. Please… please let me stay with them…"
Drea stepped forward, placing herself between the men and her mother. "She can't work like this. She's still bleeding. She needs rest."
"That is not our concern," the man replied coldly.
Her mother's lips trembled. "Take anything else. But leave my children…"
"The girl stays," the man said. "The infant--" he paused, eyeing the child, "--is worthless to us. You may leave it with the girl or dispose of it. It is not part of the debt."
Her mother let out a sound that was not human, one torn from a heart already shattered too many times.
Drea's hands shook. "Don't take her. Please. We've already lost my--"
But the men grabbed her mother by the arms. The baby wailed, small and terrified, as he was ripped from her grasp and thrust into Drea's arms.
"DREA!" her mother screamed, her voice breaking as she fought against them. "Take care of him! Don't let them hurt him! Don't let the world take him too!"
"I will!" Drea cried, clutching the baby close. "Mama, I will!"
One of the men struck her mother to silence her. Then they dragged her out into the light, her feet leaving streaks in the dirt. She didn't stop fighting until they disappeared from sight.
The silence left behind was unbearable.
Drea shut the door, her breath trembling. The baby whimpered in her arms. She sank to the floor, right there, beside the dying fire, beside the empty bed where her mother had labored just hours before and felt the weight of the world collapse onto her shoulders.
Her tears fell silently at first.
Then loudly.
Then uncontrollably.
She held her tiny brother close, rocking him gently, her tears wetting his blanket. He reached out blindly, his small fingers brushing her cheek as if trying to comfort her but he was too small to understand what had been taken from them.
The storm outside quieted.
But inside, Drea felt only wreckage.
Alone now.
Utterly alone.
She pressed her forehead to the baby's and whispered through her grief.
"I promise… I won't let them take you too."
And in the dim light of dawn, with her father buried behind the house and her mother stolen away, Drea wept, wrapping her arms around the only family she had left.
The world outside kept moving.
But Drea felt the chapter of her childhood close forever.