The flickering light of the oil lamps danced across the mud-brick houses. The scent of burning firewood mingled with the damp earth smell left by the previous night's rain.

  The villagers returned from another day of labor in the maize and cassava fields, stepping around puddles as they exchanged words. The croaking of frogs in the swamp blended with the murmur of the river current.

  In the middle of the river, Rondo, an old fisherman, hauled in the last net of the day. His boat creaked under his weight as he slowly pulled the braided fibers, inspecting the silver fish struggling in the mesh. Not far off, his wife cast him a stern look from the window.

  "Old man! Want to dine with the cattle?!" she called out, impatient.

  Rondo simply shook his head, a tired smile forming at the corner of his lips. Translated from the language of his wife into the common tongue, she had said, "Dear, dinner's ready. Come home."

  With the fish secured in a wicker basket, he rolled up the empty net and rowed to the shore, heading for home.

  Meanwhile, inside the house, Nakala, Rondo's youngest daughter, wove dry straw stalks between her slender fingers, her gaze fixed on the movement of her hands.

  Her dark bronze-toned skin glowed beneath the golden lamplight, highlighting the soft features of her face.

  Two wavy lines adorned her forehead—tribal tattoos, marks of her people. Her large, honey-brown eyes reflected the tiny flames with a restless gleam. Long eyelashes fluttered as she squinted in concentration.

  Her black hair, divided into thick braids adorned with blackwood beads, was tied atop her head, though a few rebellious strands fell over her forehead and around her ears.

  Her lips curved into a satisfied smile as a small straw doll took shape in her skilled hands.

  Beside her, a tabby cat rested on a fiber cloth, purring softly. Now and then, the tip of its tail tapped the dirt floor, raising a small cloud of dust. Nakala held up the half-finished doll and showed it to the cat with a curious expression.

  "What do you think, Ayoo? Missing something? Maybe a hat..." she murmured.

  The cat lazily lifted its eyelids, indifferent. She chuckled softly, stroking its fur.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Nakala loved making dolls—whether of straw, clay, or cloth. She found joy in creating miniatures; it was the only way she could entertain herself.

  Her brothers had already gone their separate ways—married and moved to neighboring villages. Now, she, the youngest of five, was the only child left under her parents' roof.

  "Nakala, come help me with the soup!" called Nhelete, Nakala's mother.

  She stirred a clay pot suspended over the fire in the center of the kitchen, from which rose a fragrant steam of vegetables and local spices.

  The girl set the doll beside the cat, stood up, and walked over to the bubbling pot. She picked up a clay bowl and began separating fresh herbs from a basket, lightly crushing them between her fingers before tossing them into the broth.

  "Will papa be long?" Nakala asked, receiving the wooden spoon from her mother and continuing to stir the soup.

  "He's probably fixing the net," her mother replied, casting a brief glance toward the half-open door. Despite her exasperated tone, there was tenderness beneath her words. "You know how your father is—he likes everything tidy."

  She gave a half-smile, but her expression soon darkened, her brows knitting together.

  "He never forgets to come home, no matter how late. But your brother Nhongo..." she continued, her voice lowering, "seems to have forgotten he even has parents. Two years since he married, and not a single visit. Not even to check if we're still alive!"

  Nakala bit her lip, avoiding her mother's eyes. Every time her third brother's name came up, that bitter tone crept into her mother's voice. She knew it wasn't resentment, just longing, but it still made her uncomfortable.

  Fortunately, the creak of the door announced a welcome interruption. Rondo entered, carrying the basket of fish and a slightly guilty expression.

  Before he could offer an excuse, Nakala ran to him and took his cold hands in hers.

  "You're freezing, papa! Wait, I'll get your cloak," she said, dashing to his room.

  Rondo opened his mouth to protest it was nothing, but his daughter was faster. In an instant, she returned with a coarse cotton blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. Rondo let out a soft laugh and affectionately patted her braids—a natural, proud gesture.

  "My little star, always taking care of me... What would I do without you? Hahaha..." he chuckled.

  He then looked at his wife, who was already approaching with a steaming bowl of soup.

  "All I want is a hot meal!" he joked, stretching out his hands to receive the bowl.

  A little later, the three gathered around the table.

  Nakala adjusted the blanket on her father's shoulders with care, then sat beside him. Her mother sat across from them, serving herself a generous portion as well.