The flickering lamp cast long shadows on the threadbare rug, its meager glow highlighting the worry etched on Mama’s face. The air hung heavy, thick with the scent of yesterday’s dinner and unspoken anxieties. Ten-year-old Clara clutched her worn teddy bear, its fur matted with love and silent tears.
Across the table, Papa sat hunched, a storm brewing in his eyes the color of weathered oak. Numbers danced on the crumpled paper in his hand, a cruel ballet mocking their empty cupboards. He, a man who once dreamt of building empires with his bare hands, was now defeated by the invisible tyrant called “budget.”
DMT 