Hope

"The one who plants trees knowing they will never sit in their shade has understood the meaning of life"

~ Tagore

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The factory air was thick with soot and the acrid smell of molten metal. Machines hissed and clanked in a rhythmic cacophony

The foreman's voice cut through the din, sharp and commanding.

"Karpov! Break's over! Get back to it!"

"Yes, sir." Mikhail grunted, wiping his brow with his sleeve, leaving a dark streak of grease across his temple. His shoulders ached from the morning's labor, but he straightened himself nonetheless.

The workers nearby exchanged glances. Breaks were scarce and so were complaints. For men like Mikhail, the factory was their lifeline, grueling as it was.

Yet today, something unusual stirred amidst the grind of labor.

The factory floor buzzed with an unusual energy, the typical grind of machinery softened beneath the rising hum of voices. In every corner, small groups of workers huddled together, their heads bent close over thin, ink-stained sheets of newspaper. The papers, worn from passing hands, had been purchased collectively. No man here could afford one alone.

The print was smeared, the pages crumpled, but the words they carried lit up the dim factory like sparks. Whispers traveled faster than the machines could turn, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional cheer.

Mikhail also got curious and turned to them.

Seeing him, Dimitri, one of Mikhail's best friends here in the factory broke away from a huddle and approached him, a folded newspaper clutched tightly in his calloused hands.

"Mikhail!" He said, lowering his voice,

"You've got to see this. You won't believe it!"

Mikhail frowned, his curiosity piqued.

"What now? Another factory strike in Moscow?"

Dimitri shook his head, a grin spreading across his soot-smudged face.

"Better than that. Here."

He unfolded the newspaper, the ink smudged and faded from too many fingers handling it.

Mikhail's eyes scanned the whole paper and saw a bold, catchy headline.

Then, he raised his head with a hesitant smile and said:

"Uhh... Dmitri, you know I can't read..."

Dmitri blinked in confusion of his own forgetfulness...

He facepalmed and took the paper back from Mikhail and began reading out loud:

"New Tax Decree: Relief for Workers, Burden on Nobles!" Then he turned and grinned sheepishly at Nicholas.

"A joke." Mikhail muttered. "It has to be."

"I swear to God, it's no joke." Dmitri said, tapping the article.

"The Tsar himself signed it. Reduced taxes for us workers and peasants! The nobles are the ones footing the bill now!"

Mikhail's heart thudded in his chest. He glanced up at the other workers, who had formed circles around other copies of paper, their voices a low, excited hum.

Dmitri continued proudly:

"Effective immediately, taxes on landowners and luxury goods will increase to reduce the financial burden on Russia's laboring classes. The patriotic nobles will contribute to Russia's stability, development and..."

He trailed off, staring at the page as though the words might disappear if he blinked.

A cautious laugh rippled through the men. Some were skeptical, other hesitantly hopeful. But the energy was undeniable, a crackle of something rare on the factory floor.

"Hey, Karpov!" Another worked called out, grinning. "You going to toast the Tsar tonight?"

"Long live His Majesty the Tsar!" Mikhail cheered.

"Back to work, you lot!"

The foreman barked, his scowl aimed at the huddled groups.

"You think we're paying you to stand around?!"

The workers dispersed reluctantly, slipping the newspaper into a hidden pocket or stuffing it into their work belts. Mikhail handed the page back to Dmitri and turned toward his post, but the faint flicker of enthusiasm lingered as he grabbed his tools

Later, in the evening, he finished his shift and headed home. While walking, he could still feel the excited whispers of the people around him. That also made him happy and he even walked home faster, wanting to share his excitement with his family.

Soon, he turned a corner and saw his modest house. Its walls were a patchwork of aged wood and plaster, bearing the scars of time.

Mikhail pushed the door open, his frame filling the door for a moment before he stepped inside. His boots thudded on the floor, leaving a faint trail of dirt as he shrugged off his heavy coat, dusted with soot.

"Papa!" Little Yuri darted across the room, clutching a wooden toy in his small hands. He crashed into Mikhail's legs, laughing.

Anna turned from the stove, her hands covered in flour.

"You're home late, Mikhail."

She said, a mixture of relief and mild reproach in her tone.

"Factory shift ran long." Mikhail muttered. His hands were red and raw from the cold.

"But there's news. Big news!"

The children, sensing the excitement on their father's voice, gathered round. Little Yuri climbed onto a stool to get closer, while Nadya leaned against her mother's apron. Anna, her curiosity piqued, set aside her rolling pin.

"What news, Mikhail?" she asked, her brow furrowed.

He sat down heavily at the table, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

"It's about the Tsar. Word's spread all over the factory. He's lowering taxes for the likes of us. They say the nobles will bear the load instead! Imagine that! The nobles!" He said while smiling excitedly.

Anna blinked, stunned. "Is it true?"

Mikhail nodded firmly.

"True as the sun rising. Some of the boys at the factory brought a paper pooling their kopecks together for it. I couldn't read it myself but they read it out loud, word for word.

The Tsar himself gave the decree!"

Nadya's eyes widened. The nine-year-old girl would always ask Mikhail all kinds of questions, more often that not ones he couldn't answer. A barrage of questions couldn't be missed this time either.

"Does that mean we'll have more money, Papa?"

Mikhail's face softened as he looked at her.

"Aye, little one. That's what it means. We'll pay less and keep more of what we earn. Mabye we can even buy you some proper boots before the winter's through."

"So the nobles like it?" Nadya asked curiously.

"I.. uh... I would bet they don't..." Mikhail answered hesitantly.

Nadya frowned and seemed confused for a moment, as if she was reflecting to herself. Then, her eyes lightened and she asked, once again:

"So what will they do?"

"I don't think they can do anything. It's done. The Tsar has declared it." Mikhail confidently responded, this time.

Nadya seemed satisfied with today's answers so she mentally decided she had enough for today's episode.

Instead, her mother, Anna crossed herself and said:

"God bless him. Mabye things are finally changing for the better."

"Yes, they will! I believe we can save enough for us to buy meat more often now, and mabye we can save just enough to have someone teach Nadya or Yuri how to read!!"

Mikhail was so excited he started day dreaming. For once, the future seemed hopeful for the likes of them, and Mikhail didn't want to let go of this feeling anytime soon.

Anna quickly set the table with their simple fare, and the family sat together. The children giggled as Mikhail imitated the factory foreman's gruff voice, recounting how the news had spread like wildfire through the workshop.

The Karpov house was always warm with love, but tonight there was another feeling present. Excitement.

Or even better, the one force which could make man run on empty stomach...

Hope.