The sun never truly rose in the village — it just became less dark.
Kanan opened his eyes to the sound of coughing. Not the dry kind he was used to, but something deeper. Wet, broken. It came from just beside him.
"Nilo?"
He turned over.
His brother was curled tightly, clutching his chest, breath trembling in and out like thread pulled too thin. His lips were cracked. His forehead — hot. Burning.
"I'm okay," Nilo muttered, eyes barely open. "Just tired, Kanan. I just... need more sleep."
Kanan didn't respond. He pulled the old woven cloth higher over the boy's frame, then slowly rose to his feet. The floor of their hut creaked. Dust danced in a shaft of sickly light. His limbs were heavy, as always. His body moved like it hadn't truly woken in years.
Outside, the village slept with its eyes open.
The same sight, every day: wind pushing sand across skeletal huts, crooked walls, dry wells, and figures hunched against time. No fields. No grass. No smoke from cooking fires. Only dust. And silence.
Near the edge of the village, Kanan saw her.
She sat cross-legged in her usual spot beside the cold ash-pit, her tattered shawl wrapped around her thin frame. Her hair was long and tangled. Her eyes... somewhere else. Far away.
In her hands was a stick. She stirred at empty air, tracing circles in the sand.
"Just a little longer," she whispered, smiling. "Let it simmer. Let the heat sink into the bones or it'll stay bitter."
Kanan said nothing. He stood at a distance and watched.
Once, she had carried them both on her hips. Braided their hair. Told them stories about things that no longer existed. Fruits with names he forgot. Trees that bore colours. Rain.
Now, her voice told stories to no one. Her hands stirred soup that wasn't there. She hadn't looked at him in over a season.
Kanan turned and walked.
Past the huts. Past the quiet faces. Out to the edges of the nothing, where dry rock gave way to dry wind.
He searched. It had become a ritual, like prayer.
He moved slowly, feeling with his hands, dragging his feet in case he kicked up a beetle or root. Anything. A speck of life that hadn't yet given up.
One beetle.
Two dry roots — shrivelled and almost too hard to chew.
It wasn't enough. Not for a sick child. Not even for a starving one.
By the time he returned, the sky was bruised orange.
Nilo was still lying on his side, breath shallow. His lips moved silently in sleep. Kanan crushed one of the roots and boiled it in their dented tin bowl. The water barely warmed, barely shifted. Still, he stirred with care — using her spoon.
His mother's spoon.
The same one she used to stir everything with: roots, broth, crushed herbs. She had once said:
"When you stir food, do it slow. Gentle. Like you're drawing circles on the sun. If the food listens, it becomes more than food."
It hadn't worked in years.
Night came fast in the village. Darkness didn't fall — it soaked in from below.
Kanan sat beside Nilo, eyes fixed on the cracked ceiling of the hut. His hands were still. His thoughts louder than ever.
He could hear the cough. Feel the heat coming off Nilo's body. The breath that didn't seem to reach his chest.
And he remembered.
Their mother, sitting in the same spot. The same sweat on her brow. The same trembling lips. The same fevered eyes.
She had vanished long before her body stopped moving. When the madness came, it came quietly. Then the silence took her whole.
Kanan blinked.
He looked at Nilo.
He couldn't let it happen again.
He reached into the ash near the fire pit and lifted the spoon. Its curve caught a shard of moonlight. The silver had long dulled, but he saw her hand in his. Just for a moment.
"Please," he whispered, voice rough, throat dry. "Please don't take him too."
The air didn't move.
But somewhere in the stillness — something shifted. Inside him.
It wasn't a sound, or a word. Just a feeling. Like a thread tugged from deep in his chest.
He didn't understand it. Not yet. But it sat with him. Heavy. Real.
And then, a thought formed. Quiet as breath:
If no one brings fire to the cold, then the cold becomes home.
[To Be Continued...]