Chapter 1
The sun had not yet risen, but Titus was already awake.
Not because he wanted to be.
Because in his home, sleep was never a right—it was a luxury borrowed from exhaustion.
He pushed himself up from the thin mat on the floor, his body already aching before the day had even begun. Outside, the village was still quiet. Peaceful. Almost like it belonged to someone else’s life.
Titus moved quietly through the small compound, careful not to wake anyone. Not that it mattered. Even if he made noise, no one would come to check on him. No one ever did.
The first task was always the same—fetch water.
The path to the river was long, but familiar. The jerrycans were heavy, but his hands had learned their weight before he had even learned his own name properly.
Behind him, the house was already stirring.
But not for him.
He heard laughter inside.
His younger brother.
Warm greetings.
His mother’s softer voice.
A voice Titus rarely heard directed at himself.
He paused for a moment at the edge of the compound, glancing back at the house. For a brief second, something unfamiliar rose in his chest.
Not anger.
Not sadness.
Something quieter.
Recognition.
This is how it always is.
By the time he returned with the water, the day had already fully taken shape. Orders would come one after another—farm work, cleaning, repairing, carrying, fetching. His name would be spoken only when something needed to be moved.
“Titus!”
Not “son.”
Never “son.”
Just Titus.
Short. Sharp. Useful.
By mid-morning, the sun was already harsh. Sweat clung to his skin as he worked in the fields behind the house, bending low, planting, pulling, lifting. His younger brother passed by once, clean clothes, laughing with friends.
He didn’t even look at Titus.
But Titus noticed.
He always noticed.
At noon, his mother called from the house.
“Bring firewood. And be quick.”
No greeting. No acknowledgment of effort already done.
Just command.
He obeyed.
Because that was what he had always been taught to do.
To obey.
To serve.
To exist only in usefulness.
By evening, his body felt like it no longer belonged to him. His hands were rough, his back stiff, his stomach empty. The rest of the family sat together inside the house, eating.
Titus sat outside.
Not invited.
Not forgotten.
Just… placed there.
Like part of the yard.
From inside, he could hear them talking.
His brother’s voice rose in excitement.
Their father laughed.
His mother responded softly.
Titus ate what was left in silence.
And then came the moment that changed nothing on the surface… but everything inside him.
His father stepped outside.
For a moment, Titus thought maybe—just maybe—he would be called in.
Maybe tonight would be different.
Maybe tonight, he would be seen.
But his father didn’t look at him for long.
Instead, he said something casually, almost as if speaking about the weather.
“You are strong. That is good. At least we know you will not disappoint us.”
Then he turned and went back inside.
The door closed.
The sound was soft.
But inside Titus, something cracked louder than any noise he had ever heard.
He didn’t move for a long time.
The night grew heavier around him. The village quieted. Even the wind seemed to settle.
And in that silence, Titus finally understood something he had never allowed himself to think before.
He was not waiting to be loved.
He was only being used.
And somewhere deep inside him, a question he did not yet have the courage to speak began to form.
If I stop serving them… do I still exist here at all?
The fireflies lit up the darkness around him as he sat outside alone.
Inside the house, laughter continued.
And Titus remained outside.
Unnoticed.
As always.
But for the first time…
he was beginning to notice himself.
