Episode 1 — "What Hunger Teaches"
A week had passed since the funeral, but the house still smelled of incense and unfinished goodbyes. Rony stood in the doorway of his parents' room, staring at the bare walls and the silence they had left behind. No savings. No papers. Nothing to hold on to—except two younger siblings watching him like he already knew the answers.
He clenched his fists, anger rising where grief had settled, cursing his parents for leaving him responsibility instead of a future. A week ago, he was just a son. Now, he had to decide what kind of man he would become.
The sound of crying pulled him back to reality.
Jane's sobs echoed from the living room, Brian's sniffles following close behind. Rony swallowed hard and walked into the kitchen, hoping—foolishly—that something would be waiting for him there. An old fridge hummed weakly. Empty shelves stared back at him.
They're hungry, he thought. And if I don't feed them now, they'll collapse—and I can't let that happen.
"Damn it," he muttered, punching the wall. Pain shot through his knuckles, but it barely registered. There was no gas. No groceries. Nothing.
"It's okay," he said quickly, forcing calm into his voice as he turned to his siblings. "Jane… Brian… I'll go out and bring something."
He searched through drawers, coat pockets, anywhere money might be hiding. Loose bills, crumpled and forgotten. When he counted them, his chest tightened.
Enough for three hot dogs.
That's it.
He looked at the children one last time, pulled on his jacket, and stepped outside, slamming the door behind him.
Cold wind whipped through the street, tangling his hair and cutting through his thin clothes. People passed by—laughing, talking, living—but Rony barely noticed them. His mind raced ahead, faster than his feet.
This money won't last. I need a job. Any job.
He had no relatives to lean on. No inheritance. No silver spoon. Just a house full of bills and two lives depending on him. The car accident had flipped everything upside down, stealing his parents and leaving him standing in their place.
He wasn't even eighteen yet.
Two more months, he thought bitterly. And yet here I am, worrying about rent, food, and tomorrow.
Lost in thought, he stopped in front of a small street stall glowing under yellow lights. The smell of fried food filled the air. The salesman, a British man with a polished accent, looked up.
"What d'you want, mate?"
"Three hot dogs," Rony said.
"Alright, comin' right up. You want the sauces?"
"Yes. Add them."
The man handed over the food. "Eight dollars."
Rony paid without hesitation and turned away. After only a few steps, he collided with someone.
"Oh—sorry," he said automatically.
The girl steadied herself. She looked about his age—eighteen, maybe nineteen—dressed sharply, like she'd stepped out of another era. Something about her reminded him of a Peaky Blinders character, confident and untouchable.
"Hi," she said. "Would you mind telling me where the nearest coffee shop is?"
"Yes, sure," Rony replied. "Go straight, then take the second left. You'll see several cafés there."
"Straight… second left," she repeated with a nod. "Got it. Thanks."
They parted ways without another word.
Rony walked home, the warm paper bag pressed against his chest like something precious. Inside the house, Jane and Brian didn't wait for plates or questions. They devoured the hot dogs in silence, hunger overpowering everything else.
"I'll be out for a while," Rony told them gently. "Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone."
They nodded, trusting him completely.
And that trust weighed heavier than anything he had ever carried before.
"So, Rony… what are you going to do now?" he asked himself.
He spoke aloud, quietly, as if another version of him were walking beside him—older, wiser, already knowing the answers. The empty street offered no reply.
A café would be a nice start, he decided.
Yes. I'll just walk in and ask.
For the first time that day, a thin thread of hope pulled at his chest. A small, almost shy smile appeared on his face. Without realizing it, his pace quickened. In his mind, the café owners were already waiting for him—calling him inside, arguing over who would get him first, pulling at his sleeves as if he were some rare prize.
He knew it was ridiculous.
But hope does that—it lies beautifully.
The street opened up before him, lined with cafés glowing under warm lights, windows fogged with steam and conversation. He pushed open the door of the first one.
"Hi," he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. "I'm looking for a job. Do you have any vacancies?"
The man behind the counter barely looked up.
"Sorry, we're not hiring right now."
Rony nodded and stepped back out.
Another café. Then another. And another.
Some said they weren't hiring. Some wanted experience. Others looked at him like he was wasting their time.
Amateur, he thought bitterly. What's wrong with them?
I have two lives to feed.
His thoughts were suddenly interrupted.
"Hey—you!"
He turned.
It was her. The girl from earlier. The same sharp clothes, the same confident stance, like she belonged to the city while he was just surviving in it.
"I didn't know you were following me after giving directions," she said, half-smiling.
"I wasn't," Rony replied flatly. "Why would I follow you?"
She raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "So you think I don't deserve someone following me?"
What a psycho, he thought, keeping his face blank. Instead of replying, he lifted his shoulders slightly—a silent I'm done with this—and walked past her.
The streets swallowed him again.
The sun was sinking now, bleeding orange and purple into the sky. Shadows stretched longer. The city grew quieter, heavier, as darkness prepared to drench everything in its weight.
Lost in thought, Rony stopped in front of a library.
Its windows glowed softly, different from the cafés—calmer, steadier. Inside, shelves stood tall like silent witnesses. He noticed an elderly woman sitting behind the desk, arranging books with slow, careful hands.
Women are empathetic, he thought.
Maybe she'll understand.
He stepped inside.
The air smelled of old paper and quiet hope. His voice trembled as he spoke—whether from fear, exhaustion, or desperate hope, he wasn't sure.
"I… I was wondering if there's any work available here."
The woman looked up immediately, her eyes kind and sharp at the same time. She studied him for a moment, then stood.
"What's wrong, sweetheart?" she said gently. "You look very disturbed. Come here. Sit. Drink some water first."
Her concern broke something inside him.
He sat. He drank. And then the words spilled out—his parents, the accident, the house, the siblings, the hunger, the fear of tomorrow.
She listened without interrupting.
"That's a lot for a boy your age," she said softly when he finished. "Too much."
Rony nodded, his throat tight. "I just… I need a job."
She smiled—not pitying, but certain.
"Yes," she said. "You can start tomorrow."
The relief hit him so hard he stood and hugged her without thinking. It felt like the first breath he'd taken all day.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you, ma."
She patted his shoulder gently.
Rony stepped back into the street, the night no longer feeling quite as heavy.
For the first time since the funeral, tomorrow didn't look impossible.
With the little money he had left, Rony stopped by a small grocery store on the way home. Bread, milk, eggs—only the essentials. He counted every coin twice before handing them over. That night, he cooked properly for the first time since the accident. Jane smiled while eating. Brian asked for seconds. That alone felt like a victory.
The very next morning, Rony fed his siblings, reminded them to lock the door, and headed straight to work.
It was his first day.
The elderly woman greeted him warmly at the library entrance.
"Good morning, Rony."
She showed him everything—the order of the shelves, the system of cataloging, how books were issued and returned, how silence itself was part of the job. He listened carefully, nodding, memorizing every detail. He didn't ask unnecessary questions. He watched, learned, and applied.
He was a fast learner.
By midday, his legs ached and his hands smelled of dust and old pages. The work was hectic, but he didn't slow down. By closing time, the woman smiled at him with visible relief.
"You made my work easier today," she said. "And I don't say that lightly."
Rony smiled, tired but proud.
"And," she added, lowering her voice slightly, "I have a surprise for you."
She handed him an envelope.
"I'm giving you your full salary for the month—advance payment. Relax. And if you need anything, you tell me."
His hands trembled as he took it.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"There's one more thing," she said. "I want to meet your siblings."
He hesitated, then nodded. "Alright."
They walked together to his house after work. Jane opened the door cautiously. Brian stood behind her.
"Oh," the woman said softly, kneeling to their level. "Look at you two."
She studied them closely, as if memorizing their faces.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"Jane is ten," Rony said. "Brian is twelve."
The woman nodded slowly, deep in thought. After a few minutes, she stood, smiled at them all, and said her goodbyes.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Rony."
The next day, Rony paid all the pending bills—electricity, water, overdue notices that had been piling up like threats.
That evening, there was a knock at the door.
The landlord stood outside, his expression awkward but not unkind.
"I don't like doing this," he said. "Your rent has been due for a month. I know about your parents, and I'm truly sorry."
Rony waited, heart pounding.
"All I can do right now," the man continued, "is give you one more month to figure things out."
Rony nodded slowly. He had the money—but if he paid the rent now, there would be nothing left for groceries next week.
"Thank you," he said. "I'll manage."
He returned to work the next day, burying his worries under routine. He greeted customers, helped them find books, arranged shelves, cleaned corners no one noticed, marked borrowed books and returns. For a few hours, life felt structured again.
When the rush died down, the woman—Linda, he had learned her name—called him aside.
"Rony," she said gently, "I need to talk to you about something important."
He listened quietly.
"I'm alone," she said. "My husband passed away a few years ago. I have no children." She paused. "I would like to adopt your siblings."
The words hit him like a sudden fall.
He stared at her, stunned.
"They're… they're everything I have left," he said slowly. "I can't even think about this. How is that possible?"
Linda's voice was calm, not forceful.
"You're almost eighteen. You have your whole life ahead of you. They need school, stability, education—things you shouldn't have to sacrifice your future for. You could visit them whenever you want."
Rony said nothing.
He picked up his jacket and walked out without answering.
The door closed behind him, but the question stayed—heavy, unavoidable, waiting for him in the dark.
That day, Rony didn't go home straight.
He stopped near the park instead.