Chapter four :the first dream
697 Words
Chapter Four: The First Dream
The weeks Angelo spent at Maria Santos’s bakery passed like a blur. The early mornings, the smell of flour and sugar, the clatter of trays—all of it became part of his rhythm. His body grew stronger, his hands rougher, but inside him, something new was taking root: ambition.
One night, after closing, Maria found him scribbling on scraps of paper with a borrowed pen. He was hunched over the counter, brows furrowed, lost in thought.
“What are you writing?” she asked, wiping her flour-stained hands on her apron.
Startled, Angelo tried to hide the paper, but Maria gently pulled it from his grasp. Her eyes scanned the messy lines—numbers, ideas, rough sketches of carts and stalls.
“You’re planning something?” she asked.
Angelo’s cheeks flushed. “It’s just… silly. I was thinking, what if I sell something simple on the street? Something people can afford. Like coffee… or maybe sandwiches. Just a cart, nothing big.”
Maria studied him for a moment, then smiled. “That’s not silly. That’s a dream.”
Her words sent a shiver through him. For so long, people had called his dreams worthless. To hear someone validate them felt like sunlight on frozen skin.
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The next morning, Angelo rose earlier than usual. He saved every peso from his wages, cutting corners where he could—skipping meals, walking long distances to avoid paying for transport, even mending his shoes with tape when they began to tear.
At night, by the dim light of the bakery’s back room, he continued sketching plans. A wooden cart. A kettle. Cups and bread. It didn’t have to be fancy—it just had to work.
After three months of saving, he finally had enough to buy a second-hand cart from a junk shop. It was old and rusted, the wheels squeaked with every turn, but to Angelo, it gleamed like gold.
“This is it,” he whispered, running his fingers along the worn wood. “The beginning.”
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He set up his cart at a busy corner near the bus terminal, where tired commuters often passed. His menu was simple: instant coffee, hot chocolate, and small bread rolls he bought wholesale from Maria’s bakery.
The first day, he sold only five cups. The second, ten. By the end of the week, he was earning more than he had ever earned washing dishes. It wasn’t much—just enough for food and savings—but to Angelo, it was proof that his dreams had weight.
He stood behind his cart every morning with a smile, greeting strangers, serving them warmth in paper cups. For the first time, he wasn’t invisible. For the first time, he was building something of his own.
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But success has a way of drawing shadows.
One evening, as Angelo packed up his cart, two older vendors approached him. Their expressions were hard, their voices sharp.
“You’re stealing our customers, kid,” one spat.
Angelo shook his head nervously. “I’m just… selling coffee. There’s space for everyone.”
The other man sneered. “Not for you. This is our spot.”
Before Angelo could respond, they shoved his cart. The wooden frame toppled, spilling cups, bread, and what little money he had earned onto the dirty ground. Angelo scrambled to save what he could, but the men walked away laughing, leaving him kneeling in the mess of his broken dream.
That night, Angelo sat by the riverbank, staring at the ruined cart. His chest ached, his throat burned, and tears welled in his eyes.
“Why does it always end like this?” he whispered. “Every time I try… someone takes it away.”
But then he remembered Maria’s words: Don’t waste your pain.
He clenched his fists, wiping his tears with the back of his sleeve. “Fine. Break my cart. Break me. But I’ll stand again. I’ll build something better. You won’t stop me.”
And under the pale glow of the city lights, Angelo made a vow: This failure will not be the end. It will be the reason I rise higher.
- Writer
