In the dusty town of Elmirah, nestled between the worn hills and cracked earth, lived a young man named Sami. He was barely twenty, with calloused hands and eyes that had seen too much too early. After his father passed from a sickness they couldn’t afford to name, Sami became the man of the house overnight. His mother, a quiet woman who once laughed easily, now spent most of her days coughing and sewing what she could for neighbors. His little sister Leena, only seven, still believed her big brother could fix anything. Sami worked at the brickyard on the edge of town, earning just enough to keep bread on the table and the roof patched. Every morning, before the sun peeled over the hills, he walked barefoot through the dust to the kiln. The foreman barked, the heat bit, and the pay never changed. But Sami never complained. What weighed on him most wasn’t the labor, but the dreams he’d folded away. He once wanted to study mechanics, fix engines, maybe build something lasting. Instead, his hands shaped bricks, not machines. One day, news spread that a nearby city factory was hiring—offering better pay and housing. The catch? It meant leaving Elmirah, leaving his family, at least for a while. That night, under the flickering oil lamp, Sami laid out the facts before his mother. "You must go," she whispered, her voice dry like paper. "We will manage. And you—maybe you can start dreaming again." Sami looked at Leena, asleep with a torn doll in her arms. He swallowed the knot in his throat. “Only if I can come back. And bring something better with me.” He left the next morning with a small bag, a bigger heart, and a silent promise to the red earth of Elmirah: I will return. Not with empty hands—but with hope