Chapter 2: Threads That HoldMehar's POVAfter I finish cleaning, I head to the hand pump. It stands just beside the washroom tucked under the stairs—familiar, stubborn, a little crooked now. I grip its cold metal handle and begin to press. It groans, as if woken too early, but then—water rushes out in a quick burst, splashing into our old peetal bucket. Its rim is dented, its belly bruised from years of use, but it still holds strong.I carry the filled bucket inside, the weight of it pressing against my wrist. The bricks beneath my feet are cold and a little