Merry Kingsley had learned early enough that fairy tales were expensive, and wishing alone could cost you more than you could ever imagined.
She was born into the kind of neighborhood that maps ignored and cab drivers avoided, she was raised in a crumbling flat above a closed-down pharmacy in Westbridge , a forgotten corner of South Chicago where dreams cracked like sidewalk glass.
Her mother, Joan Kingsley, had been a seamstress, with fingers worn by thread , passion killed by reality and lungs worn by illness.
She used to tell Merry,
"We may not have much, but we make it beautiful."
That was before the coughing got worse. Before the light left her eyes. Before Merry had to drop out of design school to take care of a mother who eventually slipped away in a hospital she couldn't afford. That was before the world grew darker than it already was.
Now, Merry was twenty-three. A dropout. A guardian. A fighter.
And still, somehow, a dreamer, funny right?
*PRESENT*
She stirred her two-minute noodles slowly, watching the steam dance like fading hope.
Dinner for two.
One bowl for her.
One for Bill , her twelve-year-old brother, and the only piece of her mother she had left to care for . Maybe just maybe too prove she ain't that useless after all.
The kitchen light flickered again, buzzed, then steadied. The fridge made a sound like it was exhaling its last breath. Everything in their apartment from the cracked tiles to the barely-working water heater had one thing in common: it was surviving. Just like her.
The landlord had already knocked twice that week, his voice loud enough to bring down the wirn building down. Not like she blames him tho.
She glanced at the small digital calendar on the counter.
Rent due: 3 days ago. Sighs.
There was only $450 left in her account , not enough for rent, not enough for a proper meal, but just enough to keep Bill's medication going.
Merry sighed again and grabbed two old mugs. The chipped one with a faded butterfly decal was for her. The cracked one with a pink handle was for Bill. He insisted on using it even though it leaked a little. Said it made the cocoa taste better. Or maybe he doesn't want her spending on getting another one for him.
She set them on the table just as she heard the soft creak of his bedroom door.
"Mary?" came his sleepy voice.(As he fondly calls her )
She turned, her heart melting a little at the sight of him , hair tousled, cheeks pale, eyes far too big for someone so small.
"I was hoping you'd sleep through dinner," she said, smiling as she walked over.
"I smelled noodles." He grinned weakly. "My superpower."
She ruffled his hair and handed him the mug. "Eat slowly this time, alright?"
He nodded and took a careful sip. "You working tonight?"
She hesitated. "Just a few sketches. Then I'll lie down."
"You said that yesterday."
"I mean it tonight." she said , crossing her heart.
Bill gave her a look , half a pout, half a prayer , but didn't push.
***
After he ate, she tucked him back into bed. Her fingers lingered on the edge of his blanket as she whispered gently in a cry-like tone , "One day, I'm going to build you a world where you don't have to worry about anything, just be fine for me ."
He blinked sleepily. "You already are, mum would be so proud of you. "
It nearly broke her. Or it did actually but she did a good job in hiding it
***
Back in the living room, Merry sat in front of her ancient, beat-up laptop, its screen flickering like it, too, was tired of life.
She clicked open her folder marked "Not Yet."
Inside were sketches ,wedding gowns, gala dresses, red carpet dreams. Designs she'd poured her heart into late at night, long after washing café dishes and hemming second-hand gowns at her bridal shop job.
The newest one she called "Elysian Dusk."
A soft ivory silhouette, lace like clouds, beadwork like constellations.
A gown for the kind of bride who walked with broken bones but looked like royalty anyway.
Merry stared at it. Then hit Submit.
The screen blinked:
> "Entry received. Winner announced next month."
She leaned back in the chair and rubbed her tired eyes.
She didn't believe in miracles anymore.
But still… she tried.
***
Three hard knocks shook the door.
She didn't jump. Just sighed, pulled her hoodie tighter around her, and went to open it.
Mr. James stood there tall, tired, and perpetually annoyed. "Kingsley," he said, arms crossed, "Three days late again. I'm not running a charity."
"I know," she said softly. "I get paid on Thursday."
"You said that last week."
"This time, it's real."
He stared at her. "If I don't have the money by Friday, I'm changing the locks."
"I understand."
He walked away without another word.
She closed the door quietly. Leaned against it for a long minute. Not crying. Not panicking. Just… standing there. Hanging on. If not for anything, for Bill.
When she finally sat back down at her desk, she opened a new sketchbook page.
No contest this time. No entry forms.
Just her pencil.
And a dream she refused to bury.
***
What she didn't know…
Was that in a high-rise office above Chicago's glittering skyline, a world she'd only seen in movies and envied , that things always turned out perfect. Even without great works . A billionaire had seen her design and paused for the first time in years.
Michelle Hutton didn't know her name yet.
But he'd remember the design.
And soon…
He would remember her, too.