Titus returned home as the sun began to fall.
The sky was painted in soft orange and fading gold, as if the world itself was trying to look beautiful before darkness arrived.
But beauty never changed anything in his home.
The moment he stepped through the gate, the atmosphere shifted—not in greeting, but in expectation.
No one said “welcome back.”
No one asked where he had been.
They never did.
His presence was only acknowledged when it was required.
Inside the compound, his younger brother was seated comfortably under the shade, laughing with a friend. Clean clothes. Relaxed posture. Hands untouched by labor.
Titus passed by quietly.
His brother glanced at him briefly.
A smile flickered—mocking, effortless.
“You’re back early today,” he said casually.
Titus didn’t respond.
Not because he had nothing to say.
But because he had learned that speaking rarely changed anything.
His brother chuckled and turned away as if Titus had already become uninteresting.
That was how it always ended.
People stopped seeing him once they confirmed he would not challenge them.
Inside the house, his mother was preparing supper. The smell of food filled the small space, but it didn’t reach Titus the way it should have. Not anymore.
He stood at the doorway.
Waiting.
Not for permission.
For acknowledgment.
His mother didn’t...