Chapter 1: A Cup of Coffee
Morning stretched lazily over the city, the first rays of light filtering through the cracks in the wooden jalousie windows. The distant hum of tricycles and the occasional barking of stray dogs set the tone of another day in the Santamo household.
Richard was deep in sleep, tangled in a thin blanket, his body heavy with exhaustion. The abrupt shriek of his mother's voice tore through the stillness.
"Richard, wake up! It's already afternoon! Are you planning to waste the whole day sleeping?"
His eyes cracked open, blurred vision settling on the dimly lit ceiling. He groaned, rubbing the crust from his eyelids. His hand fumbled for his phone on the worn-out bedside table. The screen flickered to life—7:02 AM.
Not even close to noon... he thought bitterly, sighing as he swung his legs off the bed.
Barefoot, he shuffled towards the back of the house, stepping onto the cement floor of the dirty kitchen. The cool air bit at his skin, carrying the scent of charred wood and old cooking oil. He crouched down by the traditional clay stove, gathering a few sticks of firewood. A plastic bag crinkled in his hand as he shoved it in the middle, using it as a makeshift firestarter. He struck a match against the box, the tiny flame catching onto the paper and licking at the dry wood. The familiar crackle and rising heat signaled success.
He reached for the old biscuit tin where they kept the rice, scooping three canfuls into a dented aluminum pot. The sound of water sloshing filled the small space as he rinsed the grains, the cloudy liquid swirling before he drained it out. He repeated the process thrice, the motion ingrained in his muscle memory.
A quick measure—index finger dipped just above the rice, water reaching the first line. Satisfied, he placed the pot over the fire, letting it do its work.
His mother's voice cut through the quiet morning again.
"Chard! There's fish in the fridge—cook paksiw while you're at it. So we can have breakfast."
Richard exhaled through his nose, the weight of morning chores settling on his shoulders. He wiped his hands on his shorts before heading to the old fridge, the motor humming weakly. The door creaked open, revealing a lone fish wrapped in a plastic bag. He grabbed it, laying it out on the chopping board.