Winter arrived quietly.
Not with snow.
But with hunger.
The cold crept through the cracks in the tiny room every night, settling into the walls, the floor, and the bones of the people living inside it.
Naomi noticed Leon shivering in his sleep long before he admitted he was cold.
So she started giving him the thicker blanket.
Pretending she preferred the thin one.
Leon noticed that too.
But like his mother…
he said nothing.
That was the thing about suffering.
If it stayed long enough, silence became part of survival.
By now, Leon had stopped acting like a child.
And Naomi hated it.
He woke himself up in the mornings.
Swept the room before she returned from work.
Fetched water from the public tap.
Watched over Gabriel quietly for hours.
Sometimes Naomi would return exhausted from the restaurant and find Leon softly reading old newspapers beside the bed.
Teaching himself words.
Numbers.
Anything he could understand.
“Where did you learn that?” Naomi asked once, surprised.
Leon shrugged shyly.
“The newspaper man throws some away.”
Naomi stared at him silently.
The little boy smiled nervously.
“I clean his stall sometimes.”
That answer crushed her more than it should have.
Because Leon never asked for toys anymore.
Never asked for sweets.
Never asked why other children wore better clothes.
He simply adapted.
Quietly.
Painfully.
And the worst part?
He never complained.
Not once.
One evening, Naomi returned home limping slightly.
Her hands were red and swollen from hours in hot water and soap.
The restaurant owner had fired two workers that week, meaning everyone else worked twice as hard for the same miserable pay.
She tried hiding the limp.
But Leon noticed immediately.
“Mother…”
Naomi smiled quickly.
“I’m okay.”
Leon stood silently for a moment.
Then walked toward the small...