The Man Who Knows Nothing

The town is celebrating.

Music fills the streets. Children run between houses.

Someone is singing karaoke — laughing so loudly the whole street can hear.

Tables overflow with food. Friends drink together. Couples sit beside each other.

For one night, everyone seems to have forgotten their problems.

But inside a small room... a man is staring at a laptop.

The room is quiet. The screen illuminates his tired face.

A line of code. An error. A terminal. Another problem.

He rubs his eyes.

“Come on! One more song!”A voice outside

Everyone laughs.

The man looks toward the window. He sees them.

And for a moment... he wishes he were there.

Not because he hates them. Because he is tired.

He wants to laugh. He wants to eat without thinking of the work time he is missing. He wants to drink without worrying that a task will go unfinished. He wants, just once, to feel that life isn't something he has to fight.

He looks back at his laptop. And a question enters his mind.

“Will all of this sacrifice even be worth it?”

“What if I give everything I have... and still end up with less?”

He closes the laptop. For the first time that night... he lets himself feel the weight.

Years earlier.

A young man sits on the floor of a small house. A baby is crying. His son.

He looks into his wallet. Nothing. He checks again. Still nothing.

Milk. That's all the child needs. Something so ordinary. Something that should never have been difficult.

But he cannot afford it.

He looks at his son. The child doesn't know about money. Doesn't know about shame. Doesn't know about poverty.

He only knows that he is hungry.

The father lowers his head. He hears the voices of other people.

“You're a graduate.”

“But you are not able to support your child?”

“Are you really ready to be a father?”

He knows it's true. He just can't bear to hear it.

He helps with chores. He accepts whatever work he can. He swallows his pride.

“Pride doesn't buy milk.”

One night, while his child sleeps... he sits beside him. He looks at the tiny body. And makes a promise.

“You won't have to live like this.”

He doesn't know how. He doesn't know when. He doesn't even know if he is capable of it.

But he says it anyway.

He leaves his job. He chooses programming.

Everyone thinks he's taking a risk.

They are right.

He has no safety net. No wealthy parents. No inheritance.

No property waiting for him. No family business. No guaranteed future.

Just a computer... and a dream.

So he studies. Every day.

He watches lessons. Reads documentation. Builds projects.

Fails. Starts again.

He applies for jobs.

Rejected. Again. Rejected. Again.

Months pass. Then years.

The world doesn't care how badly he wants it.

The bills continue. His child continues growing. The fear remains.

“Maybe I should give up.”

Then he looks at his son. And remembers the milk.

So he opens the laptop again.

One day... an email arrives.

He opens it. He reads it. Then reads it again.

He has been accepted.

A software developer. His first real job.

He stares at the screen. Nothing happens for several seconds.

Then his hands begin shaking. He covers his face. And cries.

Not because he has become successful.

But because someone finally said:

“Yes.”

After years of hearing:

“No.”

That night, he looks at his sleeping son.

“I love you.”

The job changes his life.

But it doesn't end the struggle.

There are still bills. Children still get sick. Life still happens.

There are sleepless nights. Arguments. Unexpected expenses. Responsibilities.

He works. He learns. He improves. His salary grows.

But so does his responsibility.

Every time he reaches a hill... another mountain appears.

“Just a little more.”

A little more savings. A little more experience. A little more income. A little more security.

A little more. A little more. A little more.

Years will pass. And his children will grow.

And somewhere along the way... the young man realizes something.

He is no longer climbing merely to escape poverty.

He is climbing because he has discovered how far behind he started.

Present night.

The same room.

The laptop is still closed from when the weight hit him.

Outside, the fiesta has not paused for his doubt.

Music still pours through the window. Someone still sings. Someone still laughs.

He sits with the silence for a moment.

Then he looks toward the window again.

Same people. Same warm light. Same easy joy.

This time he does not look away in shame.

He thinks of the empty wallet.

The milk.

The years of rejection.

The first yes.

The mountain that never seemed to end.

All of it returns — not as a speech, just as memory settling into place.

And then he understands.

He wasn't grinding because he hated joy.

He was grinding because joy without a foundation can disappear overnight — and he has already lived that night.

The old question rises again.

“Will all of this sacrifice even be worth it?”

This time, he doesn't flinch from it.

He doesn't need a perfect answer.

He only needs a clearer why.

A small laugh escapes him.

Soft. Private. Real.

Not because life got easy.

Because the confusion finally broke.

The screen lights his face.

A line of code. A problem. Work waiting — same as before.

But something in him has changed.

The music bleeds into the room.

His foot finds the beat.

His shoulders move. Quiet. Almost nothing.

He types — and for the first time that night, the celebration is not against him.

It moves with him.

In another room of the house...

his family sleeps.

His wife. His two sons.

The air conditioner hums softly. The room is cool. The beds are steady. Soft blankets.

They sleep soundly.

Every year since that, he keeps working.

He keeps moving to the music.

The world laughs beyond the window.

He smiles.