At the far end of Moyo Street stood a house that looked forgotten by time—its roof sagging, its walls cracked, its windows covered with old pieces of cloth. People called it the broken house. What many didn’t know was that inside lived three children who carried more pain than the walls around them.Amina was thirteen, but hardship had aged her. Jio, only eight, had a silence in his eyes that no child should carry. And baby Lela, barely three, still stretched her arms every morning, calling for a mother who would never answer.Their parents had died the same year—one to