No Home, But Dreams

The rain poured down like endless grief. I huddled under the leaking roof of my aunt’s broken hut, squeezing into a corner between my cousins, seven of us lying on a single bed. The smell of damp wood, the coldness biting through my thin clothes, and the low murmurs of arguments filled the night. At times, my aunt’s sharp voice would pierce the air, cursing life, cursing us, cursing everything. I knew, even at that young age, that I was a burden she never wanted. But still, deep inside my bruised little heart, a stubborn whisper refused to die: Someday, I will have a home. My own home. A home where no one would shout. A home where rain couldn’t reach me through the cracks. A home where dreams could finally breathe. And that night, as I closed my eyes tightly against the thunder, I made a silent promise to myself: “No matter how hard it gets, I will survive. I will create my own light.” As the night dragged on, hunger gnawed at my belly, and my throat burned from thirst. I pressed my forehead against my knees, wishing I could disappear, wishing I could float away like the mist after a storm. But reality clung to me tighter than the cold, refusing to let go. Somewhere deep inside, through the darkness and despair, I clung to one fragile truth: If I survived this night, I could survive anything.