The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the modest backyard where Ashima Hito sat, his back pressed against the old wooden fence. He watched the last traces of light spill over the quiet neighborhood, the hum of distant voices and the clatter of the city in the distance. It was peaceful here, but his mind was far from calm.

His family wasn't rich. They weren't even middle class. His father worked long hours at a factory, his mother spent her days cleaning other people's homes, and Ashima was stuck in between both worlds—too aware of how little they had, but too young to know how to escape it. The thought of his future felt like a heavy weight pressing down on him, even though he was only eleven.

The days were the same—wake up, go to school, come home, do his homework, help around the house, and then go to bed. He could barely remember the last time he felt like he had a choice in any of it. Everyone around him always said the same things: "You need to study hard, Ashima. Work hard, and one day, you can make something of yourself." But when the people telling him that were the ones who were barely scraping by, it didn't exactly inspire hope.

Ashima flicked a small stone across the yard, watching it skip twice before coming to a stop against the rusted trash can. The sound echoed in the quiet air, and for a moment, he just sat there, lost in thought. He didn't know what he wanted, only that what was in front of him didn't feel right.

"Ashima!" his mother called from the back door. Her voice was tired, but there was always a note of warmth in it, even after a long day of cleaning houses.

He looked up, not moving yet. "Yeah?"

"Dinner's ready. Come wash up."

"Okay," he replied, though he didn't make an immediate move. His gaze drifted back to the street, where a couple of kids from his class were riding their bikes, laughing as they sped past. They all had shiny, new bikes, and none of them seemed to have a care in the world.

He stood up slowly, dusting off his jeans, and made his way toward the back door. His mother was already setting the table, her hands moving with a practiced ease. She had a way of doing everything quickly, efficiently, as if she was always trying to beat time.

"How was school?" she asked, not looking up from the plates she was setting.

Ashima shrugged, pulling his chair out. "Same as usual. Nothing new."

His mother nodded, though she still watched him closely. "You should try harder, Ashima. You have a good mind. You could be anything you want."

He let out a short laugh. "Yeah, right."

His mother frowned, glancing at him with concern. "Why do you say that?"

He didn't answer at first, his eyes drifting to the worn-out curtains in the window, the chipped mug in front of him. His family had always been "working class," which meant they'd always be just barely getting by. His parents would work, and he would one day have to work too—harder, probably, because his schoolmates would leave him behind. He wasn't special. No one ever told him he could be special.

"I'm just tired," he muttered.

"Everyone's tired, Ashima," she replied softly, sitting down with her own plate. "But that doesn't mean we stop trying. You want a better life, right?"

Ashima looked at her, his lips curling into a tight smile. "I don't even know what that means."

She sighed and placed her hand over his. "It means you don't give up. It means you push through, even when you don't feel like it."

Ashima stared down at his mother's hand, her worn fingers gently resting on his. The weight of her words settled in his chest, heavier than he expected. Push through. He'd heard it before, of course. Everyone said it—teachers, neighbors, even the people who came into the house. Don't give up. But the more he thought about it, the harder it seemed. What was the point of pushing through if you didn't know where you were going?

"I don't know if I can," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

His mother squeezed his hand, a small but firm gesture that told him she wasn't going to let him wallow in self-doubt. "It's not about knowing how, Ashima. It's about deciding to try. That's all."

"But... it's too hard," he protested. "I'm just one person. What difference will it make?"

Her eyes softened, but they held a quiet strength that made him feel like she truly understood the depth of his frustration. She sat back a little, her hands folding neatly in her lap, and took a moment to consider her words.

"You know," she began, her voice thoughtful, "when I was your age, I thought the same thing. I thought, 'What difference does it make if I work a little harder? What difference can I really make?' And sometimes, it felt like all I was doing was running in place. But what I didn't realize was that the small things—the little efforts that nobody notices—they add up."

Ashima raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "Little efforts? Like what?"

She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a softer tone. "Like making sure your work is done right, even when no one's watching. Like helping a neighbor, even if it's just carrying their groceries for them. Like standing up for someone who's been picked on, even if you're scared. It's all those little moments that you might not see at first, but they build something bigger over time. Something that can't be ignored."

Ashima absorbed her words, but his mind drifted back to the schoolyard and the kids who seemed to have it all—the new shoes, the clean uniforms, the lunches packed with treats he could only dream of. He looked down, clenching his fists as his cheeks flushed with a mix of frustration and shame.

"It's not just the hard work, Mom," he murmured, unable to meet her gaze. "The kids at school… they always make fun of me."

His mother's hand stilled on the edge of the table, her gaze sharpening with concern. "What do you mean, Ashima? What have they been saying?"

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the weight of her attention making him feel small and exposed. But he needed to get this off his chest, even if he couldn't say it without his voice trembling.

"They say I'm poor. They laugh because I don't have what they have—the clothes, the lunches…" He trailed off, swallowing hard. "They say I'll never be anything. That I'm stuck."

His mother's expression softened, a flicker of pain passing through her eyes. For a moment, she looked like she wanted to say something, but she held back, reaching out to place her hand on his shoulder.

"Ashima, I know it's hard," she said quietly. "I know it's painful to hear those things. But listen to me." She waited until he looked up, meeting her gaze. "Those kids—what they say doesn't define you. They only see what's in front of them. They don't know who you are, what you're capable of. Don't let their words decide your worth."

"But…" Ashima's voice cracked as he struggled to explain how deep their words had cut. "They're right, aren't they? We are poor. I don't have anything special."

"That doesn't mean you're any less than they are," she replied, her tone fierce yet gentle. "What you have, Ashima, is a good heart and a strong mind. You have the ability to work hard, to be kind, to learn and grow. Those things matter more than any clothes or money. They're what will help you build a future no one can take from you."

Ashima's gaze fell back to the table, his mother's words both comforting and hard to believe. He wanted to trust her, but doubt lingered, tangled with his fear.

"But what if…" He hesitated, barely able to voice the question that had haunted him for so long. "What if I can't make a better life? What if no matter how hard I try, nothing changes?"

His mother's hand moved to his cheek, gently guiding him to look at her. Her eyes, though tired from years of sacrifice, were steady and warm.

"Ashima, there's no guarantee in life. No way to know what the future holds. But that's why we keep going. We keep pushing forward, even when it seems impossible, because every step forward is one step closer to something better. Life is full of challenges, and it's rarely fair. But what makes us strong isn't that we're never afraid or uncertain—it's that we don't give up, no matter how hard it gets."

Ashima felt a tear slip down his cheek, quickly brushing it away before his mother could see. But she noticed, and she didn't say anything, only held his face a moment longer, her thumb gently wiping away the trace of his tears.

"Promise me, Ashima," she whispered, her voice steady and unwavering. "Promise me that you won't give up on yourself, no matter what anyone else says."

"I promise," he whispered, his voice trembling but resolute. "I won't give up."