“Mom… I’m cold.”
Bruno’s weak voice barely filled the room.
His small body burned with fever under a thin, worn blanket, shivering on a stained mattress while rainwater leaked through the ceiling, dripping steadily into a bucket Emma had set there days ago. The air smelled of damp walls, leftover soup, and quiet desperation. Every inch of that room told the same story—life slowly falling apart under unpaid bills.
Emma stood still, her fists clenched so tightly her nails dug into her palms.
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