“Yes,” Martins said. “Come and meet my father.”
Claraara looked back at her room—the curtain door, the cracked wall, the thin mattress inside. Then she looked at the convoy, at the guards, at Martins’ calm face.
She felt like she was standing between two worlds.
One world she knew: pain, struggle, being ignored.
And another world she had only imagined: money, power, safety.
Claraara took one slow step forward, then another.
She climbed into the SUV, careful like she might dirty the seats just by touching them.
The guards closed the door.
The car began to move.
As they drove out of the compound, Claraara glanced through the window and saw the unfinished building by the road.
Austin was still there, sitting on the dusty ground, holding the takeaway container she had given him, eating slowly like it was the best food in the world.
Claraara’s chest tightened.
Martins noticed her stare. “We will pick him up now,” he said.
Claraara nodded, whispering, “Please don’t scare him.”
Martins’ face softened a little. “I won’t.”
The convoy stopped by the road.
Martins stepped out first. The guards followed.
Claraara slowly stepped out too, her legs weak.
Austin looked up. His eyes widened in fear. He clutched the food container to his chest like someone was about to steal it. He tried to stand, but his old knees failed him.
Martins walked toward him carefully.
“Austin,” Martins called.
Austin stared like he didn’t know the name.
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