Chapter 2 – The Struggle for Survival
The sun had climbed higher by the time Maria arrived at Tita Rosa's house, a small brick home near the center of the village. The faint smell of cooking lingered in the air, and the rhythmic clatter of sewing machines greeted her as she stepped inside. Tita Rosa, a stout woman with gray-streaked hair, looked up and smiled.
"Maria! You're early today," she said, handing her a bundle of shirts. "Lots of work waiting, so let's not waste time."
Maria nodded and began threading her needle. Her fingers were calloused, her nails rough from river scrubbing and laundry work, but she had learned to handle delicate stitches with precision. She moved efficiently, her eyes scanning each garment for tears, holes, or loose buttons.
Hours passed in a blur of motion. Occasionally, Tita Rosa would chatter about village gossip or complain about the heat, but Maria mostly listened in silence, nodding politely. Conversation, she had discovered, was often a luxury she could not afford. Her mind stayed on the rhythm of her hands, the tiny satisfaction of a neatly mended seam, and the coins she would earn at the end of the day.
By mid-morning, a young man entered the room, his clothes disheveled and face tired. "Maria," he called, his voice hesitant. It was Ramon, a neighbor who sometimes helped with odd jobs. "Do you… have a few coins? I need to buy rice for my sister."
Maria paused, her needle in midair. She did not have much herself, but something in his worried eyes stirred a sense of kinship. She reached into her small pouch and handed him a handful of coins. "Just enough for today," she said. "Get home before the sun gets too high."
Ramon nodded, relief softening his face. "Thank you. You're always kind, Maria."
She returned to her work, feeling a strange warmth in her chest. Kindness, she realized, was never wasted—even when she had so little herself.
By noon, the sun was merciless, and the room felt like a furnace. Maria paused, wiping the sweat from her brow. Tita Rosa handed her a cup of water, and they sat quietly for a moment. "You're doing well, Maria," the older woman said. "Soon, you'll have enough to save a little, maybe even start something of your own."
Maria smiled faintly. "I hope so, Tita. Sometimes, it feels like the world moves too fast, and I can't keep up."
"It doesn't matter how fast it moves," Tita Rosa replied. "What matters is that you keep walking."
The afternoon brought more work: buttons to sew, hems to fix, and patches to stitch. Maria's fingers ached, but she continued steadily, her mind focused on the small victories: each completed shirt, each satisfied neighbor who would wear her work with pride.
Later, as she left Tita Rosa's home, Maria carried her bundle of coins and a sense of accomplishment. The village streets were dusty, and the sun had begun its slow descent, painting the sky in shades of gold and pink. She passed children playing in the dirt, chasing one another and laughing despite their tattered clothes. A pang of longing tugged at her chest. She remembered the days when she had played freely, before hardship had become her constant companion.
Her path home was interrupted by a harsh voice. "Oi! Watch where you're going!"
A merchant, irritated at the dust kicked up by her bare feet, waved a hand angrily. Maria lowered her eyes and stepped aside, mumbling an apology. It was not the first time she had been scolded or dismissed by someone who saw her as insignificant. Poverty often made people invisible, she had learned, and she had learned to accept it without anger.
By the time she reached her shack, her back ached, and her feet were sore. The small meal she had left from the morning was gone, so she cooked a handful of rice with a few vegetables she had bartered earlier. She ate slowly, savoring each bite, feeling the exhaustion seep into her bones.
After eating, Maria sat on the wooden floor, looking at her hands—calloused, worn, yet strong. These were the hands that had earned her food, helped neighbors, and stitched hope into every torn garment she touched. They were her tools, her armor, her light in a world that often felt cold and indifferent.
As night fell, the village quieted, leaving only the soft croak of frogs and the occasional bark of a dog. Maria wrapped herself in a thin blanket and stared at the faint glow of the lamp, thinking of the days ahead. Tomorrow would bring more work, more challenges, but also the chance to keep moving forward.
Before sleep claimed her, Maria whispered a small promise to herself: I will keep walking. I will keep working. I will not let this world snuff out the light in my hands.
And with that thought, she drifted into a restless but determined sleep, ready to face another day.