Kevin's stories began to grow. Not in paper, but in purpose. He started reading them aloud to the twins before bed. His words, once silent, now echoed in their laughter and wide-eyed curiosity. But still, his mother never asked what he was writing. She only saw marks, and when they dropped, her voice got louder.

"You failed again? Do you even try, Kevin?"

"I'm trying, Mama? just not in the way you want."

School wasn't built for dreamers. It tested memory, not creativity. Kevin felt trapped between who he was and who he was expected to be. But something shifted the day a local youth centre hosted a storytelling competition. The prize? A mentorship with a published author.

He almost didn't go.

"Don't waste your time," his uncle snapped. "You're not special."

But Kevin went anyway, walking 4km with dusty shoes and a folded paper in hand. When it was his turn, he stood in front of 30 strangers and read from the same exercise book his mother wanted to throw away.

Silence followed.

That night, he returned home to a cold supper. No one asked where he'd been. So he quietly placed the award certificate next to the kettle and went to bed.

Then applause.

Then tears.

He won.