The morning of the meeting, I find myself staring at the remnants of our house.
The charred beams and broken windows seem to mock our attempts at normalcy.
My mother stands beside me, her hands wrapped around a worn-out shawl.
She looks at the biker, who is already at work, clearing more debris.
“Do you think we should ask him again?” she whispers.
I hesitate, the weight of her question heavy in the air.
“I don’t know,” I reply, uncertainty lacing my words.
We watch him for a moment longer, his movements precise and unyielding.
Every piece of rubble he lifts seems to carry the same silent determination.
The way he moves, it’s as if he’s trying to rebuild something more than just a house.
