Under the yellow haze of streetlights, the night breathes heavy with exhaustion. Rows of bamboo carts stand still like tired animals, their shadows stretching long over the dirt road. On them rest the silhouettes of men—migrant workers wrapped in checkered cloth and quiet conversation. Their bodies sag from the weight of waiting: for a job, for a call, for a tomorrow with work.
One man walks away into the smoky street, a towel slung over his shoulder—not in surrender, but in search. There’s no certainty in his steps, only necessity. He walks not toward sleep, but toward the possibility of purpose.
In this fragile pause between dusk and dawn, hope does not shout—it sits, walks, and waits. These men may have little, but they do not give up. Because for them, every morning is a chance at renewal.
Because they know, they still have miles to go.
