"All of this began… ten years ago."
His gaze grew sharper, crueler, as he looked at me. Ever since Mother died, he never called me with a gentle voice again. Yet when I was five, he used to hold me every night, stroke my hair, and call my name with love. I miss that person—the one who, together with Mother, made our tiny home feel like a little piece of heaven.
After she passed, that home vanished with her. The nobles expanded their lands, displacing small villages, swallowing up our settlement. We ended up living beneath a bridge; our roof was the sky, and our walls were a line of cracked stone pillars.
My brother became everything to me—the only one who brought dinner from the market, who traded away the last remnants of our household for stale bread and watered-down milk. That day was the last. The last item. The only precious thing we had left: Mother's pendant.
He slipped through a narrow gap, barely wide enough for his thin frame. The nobles' city was no place for people like us. But still, he went, his eyes filled with resolve.
In the middle of the market, he managed to buy two loaves of bread and a bottle of milk. I could imagine him carefully arranging them in our worn-out basket. His steps were light, yet hurried, weaving through the crowd. Just one more step, and then—
"Ah, pardon me, miss. I didn't mean to—please forgive me."
A young woman stood cradling a baby in her arms, surprised but smiling kindly.
"It's all right, child. Are you okay?" she asked, handing back the loaf he had dropped.
"Thank you, miss. Thank you so much." My brother bowed deeply.
Just then, her husband arrived, carrying a sack filled with fruits and vegetables.
"What's wrong, my love? What happened?"
"Nothing, just a child who bumped into me by accident," the wife replied.
My brother bowed again, ready to leave. But then he looked up. Just for a second.
Their eyes met. And time stopped.
That man—the husband of the young woman—was not a stranger. He was our father.
My brother ran. He ran as far as his legs could carry him. He didn't care about the stares from passersby, the basket he had dropped, or even the name he once uttered with respect: "Father."
The sky darkened. Gray clouds rolled slowly over the rooftops of the city. And at last, the heavens broke open.
The first drop fell, like the sky itself weeping for the shattered heart of a son. Then the drizzle turned into a downpour. Rain soaked my brother to the bone. His clothes clung to his skin, his hair plastered across his face, and his once swift steps began to slow. Each stride grew heavier. Each breath more labored. Until, on a narrow path between silent fields, he fell to his knees.
His sobs burst forth beneath the downpour—cries he could no longer hold back. Cries that seemed to rip the pain from his chest, each wail tearing away a strand of his worst memory.
He cried. Loudly. Without shame. Without care for who might hear. He hugged himself, as if trying to protect what little remained of his broken heart.
And amid the sound of sobbing and the relentless rain, someone approached. The steps were slow, unhurried. And the one who arrived wasn't a city guard, nor a passing stranger.
It was a man—dressed in a faded clown costume, with face paint washing away under the rain, and a gentle voice that carried empathy.
"...Are you alright, son?" he asked. His voice was muffled by the rain, yet somehow it reached through the storm of sorrow.
My brother didn't answer. He simply wept, letting the tears and rainwater blend on his cheeks. His voice drowned in sobs, his body shivering uncontrollably.
The clown didn't ask again. He simply knelt down, and without a word, lifted that small, trembling body into his arms. His steps were slow but steady, carrying him along the soaked path until he found a small clearing under an old roof—sheltered from the rain and the world's eyes.
After gently laying my brother down under the dry eaves, the clown removed the mask covering his face. The face behind it held no deceit. No trickery. There was honesty in those aging eyes.
"I don't know what happened to you, son," he said softly, barely above a whisper. "But I do know what I must do now."
He stood, turned his back, and raised one hand to the sky as if saluting the heavens that still mourned.
"I'll leave you here. You need time... to be alone. But," he paused, staring at the sky, "I'll bring you something. So you don't return home empty-handed."
He began to walk away. But a small, hoarse, fragile voice stopped him.
"Sir…"
The clown turned. "Yes, son?"
My brother lowered his head. His shoulders still trembled from a grief that hadn't yet loosened its grip.
"I... I left my things. The bread and milk… They're for my little brother. He'll go hungry if I don't bring them home…" His voice was barely a whisper. "Could you... could you get them for me...?"