Nicholas's resolve was starting to crack under the weight of his new reality. He was no stranger to hardship—at least, not in the abstract sense. As an adult, he had read about struggles and tragedies, but they had always been distant, happening to someone else in some faraway place. Now, the harsh truth of poverty sat with him at every meal, or lack thereof, and greeted him every morning in the form of aching hunger and an unrelenting cold.
The narrow alley behind the market was alive with noise—vendors shouting prices, children darting between carts, and the occasional bark of a stray dog. Nicholas stood just beyond the chaos, his small frame blending into the shadows. The smells of roasted meat and fresh bread made his stomach churn with longing, but he knew better than to step too close. Not today.
He had come with Daniel, who was a few feet away, speaking in hushed tones with a group of older boys. They were rough-looking, with torn clothes and hard eyes that betrayed lives far older than their years. Nicholas didn't like the way they stood, too confident for boys their age, like they owned the street.
Daniel returned a moment later, his face set in a grim expression. "Stay close," he muttered.
Nicholas wanted to ask what had happened but bit his tongue. The look in Daniel's eyes wasn't one he had seen before. It wasn't anger or frustration. It was fear, carefully masked behind a veneer of toughness.
That night, Nicholas's dreams were filled with fragmented memories of his old life. He saw himself sitting at a long dining table, a plate of untouched food in front of him. His parents' voices echoed from somewhere beyond the room, arguing about something he couldn't quite make out. The scene shifted, and he was at his office, staring at a computer screen, the dull hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The memories felt foreign now, like watching a movie he barely remembered.
He woke to the sound of Sarah's voice. She was in the kitchen, arguing with Daniel. Nicholas crept to the doorway, peeking around the corner.
"You think this is a game?" Sarah hissed, her voice low but laced with anger. "If they catch you—"
"They won't," Daniel shot back, his tone defiant. "I know what I'm doing."
Sarah ran a hand through her hair, her frustration palpable. "You're going to get yourself killed. Or worse."
Nicholas's chest tightened. He stepped into the room, drawing their attention. "What's going on?"
Sarah's expression softened for a moment before hardening again. "Nothing you need to worry about. Go back to bed."
"It doesn't sound like nothing," Nicholas said, his voice quieter now. "Are you in trouble?"
Daniel let out a bitter laugh. "We're always in trouble. That's just how it is."
The next day, Nicholas found himself sitting on the edge of the crumbling sidewalk outside their home, watching the world pass by. Ella sat beside him, humming a tune he didn't recognize as she braided pieces of string together.
"Do you think things will ever get better?" he asked suddenly.
Ella paused, tilting her head as though considering his question. "Better how?"
"I don't know," Nicholas admitted. "Just... not like this."
Ella smiled, a small, sad smile that made her look far older than her years. "Mama says we just have to keep going. That's what matters."
Her words stirred something in him—a faint spark of hope buried beneath layers of doubt and despair. Maybe she was right. Maybe surviving was enough, for now.
That evening, Nicholas helped Sarah prepare dinner. The meal was meager—a watery soup made from scraps they had managed to scavenge. As they worked, he noticed the lines of exhaustion etched into her face, the way her hands trembled ever so slightly as she chopped the vegetables.
"Why do you do it?" he asked suddenly.
She glanced at him, puzzled. "Do what?"
"Take care of us. Me. Ella. Daniel. You could have left, started over somewhere else."
Sarah's expression softened. She set the knife down and turned to face him fully. "Because you're my family," she said simply. "And family doesn't give up on each other."
Her words stayed with him long after the meal was finished and the others had gone to bed. As he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, he realized that he had been wrong about Sarah. She wasn't just surviving. She was fighting, in her own quiet way, to keep them together. To keep them alive.
For the first time since his regression, Nicholas felt a glimmer of something he hadn't allowed himself to feel in weeks. It wasn't joy, exactly, or even hope. It was determination—a resolve to do better, to be better. Not just for himself, but for them.
Because family doesn't give up on each other.