The morning air was cold enough to bite, seeping through the thin walls of their apartment. His mother hurried around preparing for a small delivery job—mending clothes for neighbors, delivering them one by one for a few won.
He sat on his play mat, watching her tie her shoes with trembling hands.
She was trying to hide it, but he could see everything:
The stress in her shoulders.The fear behind her smile.The exhaustion in her eyes.
And now, with rent increasing again, she looked as if the world had pushed her one step from collapsing.
He wanted to fix everything immediately.
But he was still trapped in a toddler's body.
So he needed to start with the smallest action that could ripple into something bigger.
While his mother was outside delivering clothes, he crawled toward the bookshelf—the one the community center man had brought. Most books were for kids, but that didn't matter. What mattered was information.
One book had bright pictures and big text:
"Colors of the World!"
He flipped through pages, studying the patterns.Red apples.Green leaves.Blue sky.
Not interesting.
He closed it and reached for another one.
"Jobs Around Us."
He sat up, legs spread, reading silently.
Chef.Teacher.Doctor.Tailor.
Tailor.
He stared at the little drawing of a tailor sewing clothes.
His mother.
In this era, the clothing repair market was unstable, low-profit, and considered "women's work." No growth. No future.
But he could already see something she couldn't:
She had skill.She had speed.She had quality.She just didn't have strategy.
If she learned to upscale—from repairing clothes to designing and selling small items—they could multiply income.
But how to teach her without revealing himself?
He picked up a small piece of cloth from the floor—leftover from her sewing—and walked wobbly to the table. He grabbed a pencil and began dragging lines across the cloth.
Vertical lines.Horizontal lines.A pattern.
A simple… wallet design.
He couldn't draw well with his tiny hands, but the shape was clear enough: a foldable, stitched mini-wallet that required minimal fabric but could sell for decent profit.
When his mother returned, she gasped.
"Did you… draw this?"
He looked up at her innocently and babbled,"Ma…ma…cloth."
She stared at the pattern.
Then at the cloth.Then at her sewing machine.
A thought sparked in her expression.
"A wallet…?"
He widened his eyes and clapped, pretending excitement.
She laughed softly."You really like fabric, huh?"
She didn't fully understand yet.But the seed was planted.
That evening, as they ate porridge together, there was another knock at the door.
Not the landlady.Not a neighbor.
A teenage boy—maybe around fifteen—stood there with a box of delivery items. His eyes scanned the room with a sharp, assessing look.
"I'm here for the sewing pickup," he said, handing over a plastic bag.
His mother nodded. "Yes, thank you."
When she reached for the bag, the boy's eyes dropped to the sewing machine, then to him sitting nearby. He smirked.
"You work fast," the boy said. "My dad says he likes your quality. Maybe you should join his shop."
Her face brightened a little. "Really? He said that?"
"Yeah," the boy said, leaning on the doorframe. "But he also said… if you're late again, he'll find someone else."
Her smile faded instantly.
The boy shrugged, clearly enjoying the reaction.
The baby watched him—memorizing his face, mannerisms, tone. There was arrogance in every movement. This wasn't kindness. This was someone who believed their family owned power over others.
Someone who used small authority to hurt people weaker than them.
A bully.The early form of a future enemy.
And he could already feel it:
This boy would become a problem.For him.For his mother.For their fragile life.
The boy turned to leave, but paused.
"Oh yeah," he added. "Your rent is increasing, right? Everyone's talking about it."
His mother lowered her gaze. "Yes… we are managing."
He smirked.
"Good luck."
Then he walked away.
The door closed.
His mother's hands shook as she held the sewing bag.
He sat silently, tiny body still but eyes sharp as knives.
That boy… and his family… will become trouble.
But he couldn't fight now.He couldn't win now.
He could only prepare.
And one day, when he was strong enough…
He would crush the systems that allowed people like that to step on others.
That night, his mother took out the cloth pattern he drew earlier. She stared at it a long time.
"It really looks like… a wallet…" she murmured.
She placed the cloth on her sewing machine table.
Then looked at him.
"You want mama to make this?"
He grinned and clapped.
She laughed. "Okay, okay… Let's try."
She sat down and began stitching. Her hands moved slow at first, adjusting to the idea. Half an hour later, she held up a tiny but neat fabric wallet.
She gasped.He smiled inside.
"This is… good. Really good!" she whispered. "Maybe… I could sell these at the market…"
She looked at him again, eyes softening with gratitude she didn't yet understand.
"Are you helping mama…?" she whispered.
He just babbled and crawled in a circle.
But inside:
"Yes, mother. This is the beginning."
The next day, while going to throw out trash, his mother overheard whispers from the teenage boy's father—the sewing shop owner.
"That single mother? She's cheap labor. Don't encourage her too much."
"Should we raise the price for her fabric?"
"Nah—just cut her hours. She won't complain."
His mother stepped back, clutching the trash bag.
He watched from the doorway, expression calm but cold.
This world wanted to break them.
But they would break the world instead.
And the boy's family?
They had just unknowingly placed themselves on the wrong side of history.