Chapter 1 - THE THRESHOLD OF DUST
Inside a rustic, sunlit wooden grocery shop, a young boy with messy blonde hair and a dirty face stands near the open doorway, crying as he cradles a crying baby wrapped in a beige swaddle blanket.
The shop interior features wooden shelves stocked with glass milk bottles and jars of cookies.
Outside the doorway, a bright street with a passing car is visible under soft daylight.
The camera is static, capturing a medium full shot with a shallow depth of field, emphasizing the boy's distressed expression.
The boy’s sneakers scraped against the weathered floorboards.
The rubber soles were worn down to a smooth, dangerous sheen.
He shifted his weight.
His left shoulder dipped lower than his right.
The bundle in his arms was heavy, constantly moving, fighting the constraints of the beige fabric.
He tightened his grip.
His small fingers, rimmed with black dirt beneath the nails, pressed deeply into the thick cloth.
A sharp, jagged wail pierced the heavy afternoon air.
The baby’s face was red, scrunched tightly like a crushed autumn leaf.
Dust motes danced in the shaft of sunlight slicing through the open doorway.
The boy’s chest heaved.
His gray t-shirt clung to his ribcage, damp with sweat and street grime.
Every breath he took sounded like tearing paper.
He stepped further into the shop.
The wooden floor groaned in protest.
The smell of dried tea leaves, old wood, and sweet vanilla cookies hung thick in the air.
Behind the counter stood an old man.
His plaid shirt was faded at the elbows.
A pristine beige apron shielded his chest, a stark contrast to the boy’s filth.
The old man’s hands were entirely still, resting flat against the polished mahogany of the counter.
His knuckles resembled gnarled roots.
The boy stopped just inches from the edge of the counter.
He tilted his chin up.
Tears cut clean, parallel tracks through the soot on his cheeks.
He didn't wipe them away.
His arms were too full.
His burden was too great.
He stared at the rows of thick glass bottles behind the man.
The stark white liquid inside them looked like captured clouds.
The baby screamed louder, a desperate, raspy sound that made the boy’s eyelids flutter.
He squeezed the baby tighter to his chest, trying to transfer his own failing warmth.
The boy opened his mouth.
His lips were chapped, peeling at the corners.
"Please uncle," the boy’s voice cracked, fragile as a dry twig.
The old man’s silver eyebrows twitched, just a fraction of an inch.
May you like
"Give me some milk."
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