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He moves like clockwork, a creature of sunrises and ledgers, of calloused hands that once held ambitions but now only hold receipts. The world does not pause for a man like him. It does not ask why his shoes are worn or why his shirts have the same fraying collar. It does not notice the absence of new things in his life— only the presence of them in yours. You see the roof, but not the nights he spent beneath it, pacing through calculations, subtracting desires to make room for needs. You see the light in your room, but not the bills he flattened against his palm, the arithmetic of sacrifice performed in silence. His name is not written in gold, not carved into milestones, not etched into the stories of victory you tell. He is the margin— the place where numbers are adjusted, where dreams are trimmed to fit inside a budget. His palms have learned to grip everything but indulgence. He does not know the last time he bought something just for himself. Even his hunger is measured, a plate of food portioned with restraint, so no one else at the table eats less. There is a language of exhaustion he speaks, but no one listens for it. No one asks if he is cold when the blankets are spread over his children first. No one asks if he is thirsty when the last sip of water is given away. One day, he will be gone, and they will wonder why they never heard him laugh, why they never saw his hands tremble, why they never thought to ask if he ever wanted more than just survival.
Disclaimer: This show may contain expletives, strong language, and mature content for adult listeners, including sexually explicit content and themes of violence. This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to real persons, businesses, places or events is coincidental. This show is not intended to offend or defame any individual, entity, caste, community, race, religion or to denigrate any institution or person, living or dead. Listener's discretion is advised.Less