Koffi did not sleep.
He walked through the village instead.
Night loosened its grip slowly, the sky paling at the edges long before the sun showed itself. He watched his father rise before the first light, shoulders already heavy before the day had begun, as if sleep had only paused the weight rather than eased it. The older man stretched once, quietly, then reached for his tools without hesitation, moving with the steady rhythm of someone who had never expected the world to be easy.
Koffi followed at a distance.
He watched his mother grind grain by hand, her movements practiced but tired, the sound of stone against stone steady enough to become part of the morning itself. A thin line of sweat traced down her temple, though the air was still cool. She wiped it away without stopping.
Children played near huts lit by lanterns, flames flickering close to dry walls.
Too close.
A gust of wind pushed one flame sideways, making shadows leap across the clay like living things. A child laughed, chasing the movement with delight, unaware of how little it would take for warmth to become disaster.
Everything looked the same.
And that hurt more than anything else.
He followed his parents into the fields, watching them work the soil with hoes and machetes, sweat soaking into the earth they loved. The sun climbed, heat pressing down until the air shimmered above the ground. Dust clung to their skin, turning effort into something visible.
They did not complain.
They never had.
That made it worse.
Because it meant they had accepted this life long ago — not as a choice, but as reality.
That night, Koffi sat outside their hut, ash settled quietly around him, drifting in slow circles like breath made visible. The village moved through its evening rituals: cooking fires, quiet conversation, the low murmur of people unwinding from a day that would begin again the same way tomorrow.
"You're restless," his mother said softly.
"I didn't mean to wake you," Koffi replied.
"You didn't," she said, stepping outside to sit beside him. "Mothers hear things before they happen."
He watched the lantern between them, its flame steady but fragile, the glass warm enough to glow faintly.
"There's a world beyond here," Koffi said.
She smiled gently. "There always has been."
"They say they can help," Koffi said. "Really help."
His father, who had been resting just inside the doorway, looked up slowly, eyes reflecting the lantern light.
"At what cost?" he asked.
Koffi didn't answer.
Because he didn't know.
Because the question had been waiting for him long before his father spoke it.
His mother reached for his hand, her touch careful, as if she still expected ash to slip between them.
"Fire teaches us," she said. "But so does comfort. Be careful what you accept."
Koffi looked at the lantern between them.
The small flame.The thin glass.The way one careless movement could turn safety into loss.
And remembered what fire could take.