The alarm buzzed at 4:30 a.m., slicing through the brittle threads of sleep.
Elena didn't groan or reach to snooze. She simply turned it off with a practiced flick of her fingers and lay still, breathing through the quiet. Another day. Another shift. Another mountain to climb before she could exhale again.
A low hum from the refrigerator and the faint rumble of delivery trucks rolling down the distant high street grounded her. In the near-darkness, she blinked at the ceiling, the familiar stain in the corner like a watchful eye. For a second, she allowed herself to feel the weight of her limbs, the aching dullness in her lower back, the scratch in her throat. Then she pushed herself upright.
Her fingers reached over the edge of the bed, pulling yesterday's work trousers from the chair. Creased, worn at the knees, the waistband permanently stretched from long shifts and fast changes. But they were clean—she'd hand-washed them in the sink the night before, wrung them dry with aching hands, and laid them flat across the radiator.
The shirt she pulled over her head was faded blue with a faint bleach stain near the hem. Not noticeable. Not unless someone was looking too hard. And no one ever did.
She moved into the kitchenette, treading lightly on the uneven floorboards. A single slice of bread dropped into the toaster. No butter, no jam. Just bread. And a flask of tea she'd brewed weak—stretching the last of the bags as long as she could.
The toaster clicked. From the bedroom, she heard the rustle of sheets and a soft sigh.
Jamie.
She padded into the room and peeked inside. He was curled up under the mismatched duvet, limbs tangled like a cat. He always kicked off the covers in his sleep, and she gently pulled them back over him.
She smiled quietly, brushing a strand of dark hair off his forehead.
He didn't stir.
She went back to the kitchen, scribbled a note on the corner of an old receipt and stuck it to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a cartoon dinosaur.
"Jam, breakfast is in the oven. Be good. I'll be back after work. Love, Lena."
She'd taken Jamie in when their mum left, first slowly, and then all at once. It started with skipped dinners and long silences, then longer nights out, and then one day she didn't come back at all. No call. No goodbye. Just a hole in the shape of a woman they once trusted.
It had been nearly two years.
And since then, it had been Elena and Jamie. Side by side. Sibling and sibling, yes—but for all practical purposes, she had become his everything.
…..
She pulled on her coat, shoving her purse into the deep pocket. Inside: fourteen pounds, a nearly expired bus pass, and a folded list of bills she was late on. The "Emergency" jar on the shelf above the sink held nothing but coins and hope.
She paused at the door and looked back into the stillness of the flat. Not much to look at peeling wallpaper, a secondhand sofa that sank in the middle, a curtain rod that drooped on one side.
But it was theirs.
…..
The Job
The cleaning company van pulled up at 5:15 sharp outside the estate block. Elena climbed in with two other women Gina and Marisol both half-asleep, heads bobbing as the van hummed along.
No one spoke much. They didn't need to. Mornings were for nods and glances and stretching silently with aching joints. Elena gave a small smile to Marisol, who returned it with a slow blink and a yawn.
The first building was a corporate complex in the business district. Shiny glass, gold lettering, marble floors. Her boots squeaked on the polished tiles as she walked in with her cart—mop, gloves, bucket, sprays.
She started with the toilets. That was always her job.
The gloves went on. Her nose adjusted to the mix of bleach and stale air. She scrubbed toilets, wiped mirrors, changed out soap cartridges. In stall after stall, her fingers moved automatically.
It wasn't just the cleaning. It was the time. Every minute had to count. Management clocked how long they took per floor. If you went over, it was marked. If you dropped a rag, they'd notice.
Her knees cracked as she bent to reach under a sink. Her back ached when she stretched to clean the high windows. At one point, her wrist cramped so badly she had to stop for sixty full seconds, pretending to refill her bucket, just to shake the pain away.
They finished the office block by 8:30.
Then came the real work.
.....
The Second Site
The second location was a large private school. Gleaming whiteboards, long corridors lined with lockers, and polished wood floors.
By now, her shoulders burned, but she kept her head down.
The cafeteria was worst, dried milk trays, gum under tables, sticky orange juice patches. She worked alongside Marisol, who hummed under her breath in Spanish. Occasionally they exchanged glances, a nod here, a smirk there sisterhood forged in ammonia and aching joints.
"Elena," Marisol said at one point, "you ever get gum in your hair?"
"Not yet. But today feels like the day," Elena muttered, scraping something fossilized off the bottom of a bench. They both snorted quietly.
At noon, they were allowed a 15-minute break in the storage room.
She sat on an overturned bucket, took out her thermos and dry sandwich. There was a radio somewhere playing low jazz. Gina sipped her instant coffee, eyes closed. Marisol scrolled through photos of her grandchild.
"Another week, eh?" Gina said, stretching her arms over her head.
"Another mile," Elena murmured in response, her voice flat but not defeated.
They all smiled. It was the kind of weary humor that only people who worked this hard could share.
....
Back Home – Day Routine
When Elena got home, her clothes reeked of chemical cleaners. Jamie had returned from school, already tucked into his homework at the kitchen table.
"Lena!" he called as soon as he heard the door open. "We got extra reading to do. Want to hear it?"
"Give me ten, yeah?" she replied, kicking off her shoes, wincing at the raw spot on her heel. "Let me shower first or I'll poison the couch."
The shower stung her skin, steam fogging the cracked mirror above the sink. She stared at her reflection, tired eyes, smudged shadows under them, dry lips, a woman held together by routine and willpower.
She changed into sweatpants and a clean t-shirt, the soft fabric a small reward. Jamie was waiting on the couch, book open in his lap.
"You ready?" he asked, eyes bright behind scratched lenses.
"Let's hear it, champ."
He started reading, tripping over a few big words, frowning in concentration. She corrected him gently, nodding when he got through a sentence smoothly. His voice was growing stronger every week.
Dinner was leftovers. She added rice to stretch it further.
"What's in this?" Jamie asked, poking his fork suspiciously.
"Magic," she deadpanned.
He grinned. "Doesn't taste like magic."
They ate with the TV playing an old DVD someone had donated last Christmas. Jamie laughed at the cartoon. She watched him instead—his laughter, his ease. It made her feel like maybe they were winning. Even just a little.
...…
Evening Thoughts
After Jamie went to bed, she sat at the table with her notepad.
She had exactly £14 left.
The operation fund was untouched in its envelope under the cupboard. She wouldn't touch it. Not for anything.
Next week, her schedule changed. She would start a new job; not cleaning this time. A junior administrative assistant role at a large corporate office in the city. The pay wasn't great, but the building was warm, the hours were stable, and for the first time in a long time, the work didn't smell like bleach.
She didn't own clothes that looked "office" ready. No neat blouses. No shoes without worn soles. But maybe once the first check came in, she could buy herself one proper shirt. Maybe even a second-hand coat.
Just something to help her stand taller.
.....
The Hard Days
Each day that week was the same.
Alarm. Toast. Note for Jamie. Gloves. Floors. Bleach. Pain.
But she kept going.
She found a rhythm in it. In the ritual. The motion. She hummed when no one was around. She tucked her gloves into her waistband like armor.
On Thursday, she helped Gina when she slipped on wet tiles.
"You okay?" Elena asked, reaching out.
"Bloody knees," Gina hissed. "But nothing's broken."
"Need me to tell Clara?" Elena offered.
"Nah. She'll dock me for breathing wrong. Let's just get the last wing done."
On Friday, Elena stayed late to help Marisol with a full-floor disinfection.
"You don't have to," Marisol said, already sweating.
"I know," Elena said, shrugging. "But I'm here."
Her arms ached. Her knees popped. But she was needed. And she showed up.
...…
The Weekend
Saturday came as a whisper.
She let Jamie sleep in while she folded laundry on the couch. Her back throbbed, but it was a quieter pain than before.
She called her sister briefly, just to hear a familiar voice.
"No news yet," she said. "But it's okay. We're okay."
Jamie painted at the table, tongue sticking out in concentration. He used watercolors from a nearly dried-up set, making the best of every pigment.
"Lena, I made you this," he said, holding up a blotchy picture of them both standing under a rainbow.
She didn't cry.
She laughed.
"Best thing I've seen all week," she said, and meant it.
He beamed, pressing the damp paper into her hand.
.....
That night, after Jamie had gone to bed and the city outside faded into quiet sirens and the occasional bark of a dog, she sat again at the kitchen table.
She was tired. Deeply. Her hands bore small cuts, her skin dry and split in places. But the envelope under the cupboard was still safe. Jamie was still fed. The bills had not won yet.
Hope, she realized, didn't always arrive loud.
Sometimes it came in the shape of blistered hands, a cleaned toilet, and a folded note in a lunchbox.
Next week, a new job. New faces. New floors.
She didn't know if it would change everything.
But she knew this;
she would show up.
And she would rise.