I remember you— knees scraped raw on the concrete floor, counting hours by the flicker of a single bulb that never slept. Your hands too small for the iron tools, yet somehow the world kept placing weight in your palms like you were made to hold it. I couldn’t tell you then— you were already breaking in places no one saw. Small bones shouldn’t bear a kingdom’s load, but you did, alone, in that narrow room where childhood never found a door. I hear your name in every echo of fatigue, every scar you left unspoken; I grew from what you endured— but you shouldn’t have had to. Little one, I carry you still. I see you now— a silhouette bent over the moving belts, trying to make sense of why the grown world leaned so hard on your tiny frame. Your dreams were folded like discarded fabric scraps, piled in corners no one swept clean. Small bones shouldn’t bear a tyrant’s greed, but you did, unseen— a ghost inside the industry’s machine. I speak for you now because you never learned how to raise a trembling voice without consequence. If I could go back, I’d lift the burden from your spine— tell you the world lied when it said you were made for labor. You were made for light, but only darkness knew your name. Small bones carry big burdens— but only because no one stopped them. I promise you, I am the strength you became out of the weight they forced on you. You didn’t fail— you survived. And I’m here because you held on long enough for me to speak. Little one, rest now. I’ve got the burden from here.
