He wakes before the sun, when the sand is still cold and the sky is quiet. A poor Egyptian commoner—one of many, nameless to the scribes, faceless to the nobles, but alive all the same.

His hands are cracked, stained with dust and grain. He carries baskets on his back, water on his shoulders, and prayers in his chest that never leave his lips.

He doesn’t ask the gods for riches. Just enough bread. A breeze. A day without punishment.

At dawn, he sets up his stall by the market road—wooden crates filled with figs, dates, and sour pomegranates. Fruit picked in silence, sold in sun. He calls out to passersby with a voice that’s already tired, but polite, always polite. Too little kindness in the world to waste any.

“Excuse me! My loyalty? Would you like to buy some fruit? Perhaps some figs?” He asked.