THE FIRST STEPS OF TWO ROADS

The first steps of a child are not merely movements but echoes of the road they will walk, reflections of the world that cradles them, shaped by the hands that guide them, by the floors beneath their tiny feet—some made of polished marble, reflecting chandeliers above, others of rough concrete, cold against skin, whispering lessons of resilience before words can be understood.

In a mansion where every corner exuded wealth, where the air carried the scent of imported flowers and polished wood, a young boy stood, his small hands reaching toward the expectant arms of a waiting father, a man whose presence was measured not in affection but in approval, whose nods carried the weight of silent expectations, whose mere gaze demanded excellence before the child could even comprehend the meaning of failure. And so, when the boy took his first step, there was no stumble, no hesitation—only movement calculated, as though even in infancy, he knew that to falter was to disappoint, that in this world, perfection was not a goal but a requirement. Applause filled the vast room, servants standing at a respectful distance, watching the moment unfold, their expressions neutral, trained to observe without emotion, to celebrate without sincerity, for in this house, even joy was measured, even pride was controlled, even a child's first step was a performance.

But far away, where celebration was a rare luxury, where space was not defined by grand halls but by cramped rooms filled with the sounds of daily survival, another boy stood, his small fingers gripping the edge of a chipped wooden table, his mother kneeling beside him, whispering words of encouragement, her voice filled with warmth that no wealth could buy, her eyes carrying something far greater than expectation—hope. And when he stepped forward, when his legs wobbled and his body teetered, there was no judgment, no silent disappointment, only laughter, raw and unfiltered, the sound of love unconcerned with performance, a joy untouched by obligation. He fell, of course, because in his world, falling was not failure but part of the journey, and so he rose again, driven not by duty but by the warmth of the arms that would always be there to catch him, until one day, they no longer had to.

Two steps, two roads. One walked with the weight of legacy, the other with the fire of perseverance. One expected to succeed, the other destined to struggle.

Neither yet knowing how far their paths would take them, how cruelly fate would shape their worlds, how, for years to come, they would remain strangers, living in parallel, never crossing, never knowing that despite the vast distance between them, a single thread still connected their souls.

But that time had not yet come.

For now, they simply walked.