We Live Alone in a Hungry World
Sometimes, I hear people say, "The future is bleak." I can't help but think, they're right.
My name is Karl, and I'm nine years old. Right now, I'm holding my little sister, Mia, as she sleeps. She's four, and the only thing in the world that matters to me. We cling to each other every night, finding comfort in our shared warmth, even as the cold bites through our thin clothes.
I don't remember much about our parents. For as long as I can recall, it's been just Mia and me. We used to belong to a group—other kids and families struggling like us—but after my parents got sick, they began avoiding us. My father died not long after. My mother followed soon after him.
Before he passed, my father left me with a lesson I've carried ever since:
"Never beg. Work for what you need. Don't ask, don't expect. Be worthy."
Even at our lowest, he'd say it with a chuckle, like the words themselves were a kind of shield. I didn't understand it then, but now I know: dignity was the only thing he had left, and he wanted me to hold on to it, too.
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Days pass, and we keep moving from place to place. I don't know where we are anymore—just somewhere in the city. My only goal is to keep Mia safe. She deserves a beautiful life, one where her dreams can come true.
But how can I make that happen?
One day, as we walked along the street, I saw a man playing music on buckets. He used sticks to beat out rhythms, drawing a small crowd. People smiled, and some even gave him money. It seemed strange to me—he wasn't selling anything, just making noise—but it sparked an idea.
If he could earn something, maybe I could too.
I found some old buckets and broken containers in an alley and tried it myself. The next day, I set up on a busy sidewalk and hit the buckets with sticks, imitating what I had seen. But no one stopped. In fact, people walked faster when they saw me.
For a week, I kept trying. Hunger and exhaustion gnawed at me, but I refused to give up. Then, disaster struck: Mia got sick.
Her small body burned with fever, and I didn't know what to do. I carried her to the cleanest corner I could find and stayed with her, holding her hand as she lay still. Fear gripped me like a vice. I couldn't lose her—not Mia. She's all I have.
For three days, I barely moved. I fed her scraps we'd scavenged and prayed for her to get better. When her fever finally broke, relief flooded through me. But I knew then that we couldn't go on like this. I had to find a way to take care of her—for real.
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I went back to the buckets, determined to make it work. This time, I experimented, hitting different objects—glass bottles, metal pipes, anything I could find. As I played, something amazing happened: Mia laughed.
Her laughter was like music, clear and pure. It reminded me why I was doing this. I stopped trying to make noise for money and started focusing on making her smile.
One day, while I performed for Mia, other people stopped to watch. They smiled too, and some even laughed. For the first time, someone dropped a coin into the hat I'd set on the ground. Then another, and another.
That was the first time I earned something.
From then on, I performed not just for Mia, but for anyone willing to watch. I added silly dances, exaggerated faces, and playful antics. I didn't just make noise—I created joy. And joy, I learned, was worth something.
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Years passed, and I grew. I learned to play real instruments, practicing on broken guitars and old keyboards I found in the trash. I performed at small events, weddings, and street fairs, slowly building a reputation.
But music wasn't enough. I started helping vendors, cleaning sidewalks, and running errands for shopkeepers. Every coin I earned went toward Mia—her food, her clothes, her education.
Eventually, I found steady work as a janitor at Mia's school. It wasn't much, but it meant I could stay close to her. Watching her grow into a confident, happy girl made everything worth it.
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Today, I own five hospitals and three bakeries.
The hospitals exist because of Mia. When she was sick, I swore I'd never let anyone else go through what we did. I built them to serve everyone, especially the poor.
The bakeries are for the hungry—those like us in the past. Food is a right, not a privilege. I make sure no child has to sleep on an empty stomach.
Mia now runs a company dedicated to solving world hunger, turning her childhood promise into a global mission. I still remember her saying, "When I grow up and have lots of money, I'll make sure we always have food."
Back then, it was just a dream, spoken in the innocence of a child. Now, it's a reality. She's changing the world, inspiring governments, farmers, and scientists alike. Despite her success, she's still the same kind-hearted, determined girl who once clung to me on cold nights, dreaming of a better future.
Good times. Indeed.
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But something feels off.
The doctors insist I'm healthy, but I know myself too well. Lately, I've felt… strange. Maybe it's hallucinations, or perhaps just fear creeping in. I'm not sure. All I know is this vague, unshakable feeling that my time is running out.
I've visited countless hospitals, telling Mia it's part of my research—an excuse to figure out what needs improving in our own facilities. That's what I told her, at least. The truth is, I've been searching for answers, hoping someone can explain what's happening to me. So far, no one has.
But just in case…
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Mia,
If my time does come, I need you to remember this:
I will always protect you, no matter where I am. You may not see me, but I'll be there—in your laughter, your successes, and even your tears. When the nights feel too quiet or the weight of the world seems too much, know that I am with you, steady as the stars in the sky.
Live well, Mia. Stay safe and be kind to yourself. Keep dreaming, keep growing, and never stop smiling. Your strength and your heart are greater than you know. Carry the lessons of our parents and the memories we built together—they will always guide you.
You are never alone, Mia. You are loved beyond measure.
Farewell for now, my dearest sister.
With all my love,
Karl
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