The rooster had not even finished his first call when CUTIS quietly slipped out of bed. Dawn was still hiding behind the mountains, and the village lay wrapped in soft blue shadows. This was how every important day began for him: early, silent, with a heart already awake before the sun. Today was special. Today was a full 24-hour journey—one day to earn money, one day to take care of Dad, one day to prove that love can be louder than tired bones and empty pockets.
CUTIS paused at the doorway and looked back. Dad was asleep on the wooden bed, his chest rising slowly, unevenly. Years of hard work had bent his back and stolen strength from his hands. The cough that visited every night had become a cruel alarm clock. CUTIS clenched his fists, then relaxed them. “Just wait for me, Dad,” he whispered. “I’ll be back before you wake up.”
The sky began to glow pink as CUTIS stepped onto the dirt road with his old bicycle. The tires squeaked like they always did, but he smiled anyway. This bicycle had carried dreams heavier than sacks of rice. Pedal by pedal, he rode toward the market, where opportunity was never guaranteed but always possible.
By the time the sun climbed over the rooftops, the market was alive. Voices tangled with the smell of grilled corn, fresh herbs, and wet earth. CUTIS parked his bike and rolled up his sleeves. First job of the day: unloading vegetables from a truck that had arrived late. The crates were heavy, and the driver looked impatient. CUTIS didn’t complain. He lifted, carried, stacked—again and again—his shirt darkening with sweat. Each crate meant a few coins, and each coin had a purpose: medicine, food, warmth for Dad.
“Kid, you’re fast,” the driver said, tossing him a bottle of water.
CUTIS drank, smiled, and went back to work. Time moved quickly when his hands were busy. By mid-morning, he had earned enough for breakfast and tucked the rest carefully into his pocket. He ate a simple meal—rice and a boiled egg—then hurried to the next task.
At the riverside, fishermen were returning with nets full of silver flashes. CUTIS offered help cleaning fish, his fingers numb from cold water. The smell was sharp, but he didn’t mind. He thought of Dad’s favorite soup, the one that warmed his chest and eased his cough. He imagined cooking it later, the steam fogging the small window of their home.
Around noon, the heat pressed down hard. CUTIS wiped his face and headed to a small repair shop. The owner, an old man with kind eyes, needed help sanding wooden stools. CUTIS worked steadily, smoothing rough edges, turning splinters into something gentle. “You’ve got patient hands,” the old man said. CUTIS laughed softly. “I learned from my father.”
By afternoon, his legs ached, but his spirit stayed light. He rode to the fields to help harvest cassava. The soil clung to his nails, the sun kissed his skin, and laughter echoed between rows. When payment came, CUTIS counted carefully, then folded the money twice and placed it in the same pocket. He didn’t spend a single coin unnecessarily. Every number mattered.
As the sun leaned toward evening, CUTIS turned his bicycle homeward. The road felt longer now, but the thought of Dad waiting gave him wings. He stopped by the small clinic first, buying medicine prescribed last week. The pharmacist recognized him and nodded approvingly. “You’re a good son,” she said. CUTIS felt his chest warm at the words.
Home smelled quiet when he arrived. Dad was awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his knees. His eyes lit up when he saw CUTIS. “You’re back early,” Dad said, though CUTIS knew it was late.
“I brought dinner,” CUTIS replied, holding up the bag of fish and vegetables like a prize. He set to work immediately, chopping, stirring, tasting. The soup simmered, rich and comforting. CUTIS helped Dad wash his hands, guiding them gently as if they were fragile glass.
They ate together at the small table. Dad drank slowly, savoring each spoonful. “This tastes like better days,” he murmured. CUTIS smiled, pretending not to notice the tears in Dad’s eyes.
After dinner, CUTIS cleaned, then prepared a warm compress for Dad’s chest. He listened to the familiar cough soften, then fade. “Rest,” CUTIS said softly. “I’ll stay awake.”
Night deepened. The village grew quiet except for insects singing their endless song. CUTIS sat by the window, counting the day’s earnings one last time. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was enough—for today. Enough to keep hope alive. He tucked the money into a tin box beneath the bed, then stretched his sore muscles. The day wasn’t over yet.
At midnight, CUTIS rose again. He boiled water, checked Dad’s temperature, adjusted the blanket. Dad stirred and reached for his hand. “You don’t have to do everything,” Dad whispered.
CUTIS squeezed back. “I want to.”
The hours crept by. CUTIS dozed sitting up, waking whenever Dad coughed or shifted. At three in the morning, he brewed tea. At four, he massaged Dad’s hands, easing stiffness. At five, the sky began to lighten once more.
A full circle. Twenty-four hours.
When dawn finally broke, CUTIS stepped outside again, breathing in the cool air. He felt tired to the bone, but his heart felt strong. He had earned money. He had taken care of Dad. He had kept his promise.
Dad watched from the doorway, wrapped in a blanket, smiling. “You look like the sun,” he said. “Tired, but still shining.”
CUTIS laughed, the sound bright and real. “Then let’s shine together.”
This was the special journey of CUTIS—not a story of luck, but of choice. Not a miracle, but a thousand small acts of love stitched into a single day. And as the village woke once more, CUTIS climbed onto his bicycle, ready to begin again. 🌅💪❤️
