Once, David had been a banker.
He remembered crisp shirts, polished shoes, cold office air, and the respect in customers’ voices when they called him “Mr. David.” He had dreams then. Dreams of buying land, building a home, and filling it with children’s laughter. Grace, his wife, had believed in those dreams too.
Then one morning, the bank let him go.
The manager had spoken gently, but the words still shattered him. “David, you’ve been loyal, but the bank is cutting staff. Today is your last day.”
He had left carrying a small carton—some papers, a pen, and a photo of himself and Grace smiling at the beach.
Grace had cried when he told her, but she wiped away her tears and held his hand. “We will be fine. God will help us.”
Then came the fire.
A neighbor’s stove exploded in the night, and flames spread through their building like a beast. David had tried to save their documents, their certificates, their little savings—but Grace dragged him out before the smoke could kill them both.
By morning, everything they owned was ash.
Now they lived in an unfinished building at the edge of the city. No doors. No windows. Bare concrete walls. At night, Grace spread a wrapper on the floor, and they slept side by side while rats darted past and rain leaked through the blocks.
Yet every night, Grace still whispered, “Don’t give up. Tomorrow will be better.”
At the dump, David sighed and kept searching. Hunger did not care about sorrow.
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