The phone was old.
The screen flickered when it charged. The keypad stuck sometimes. But to Elia and Mara, it was a portal—small, scratched, but wide enough for dreams to pass through.
Every night after Lena fell asleep, the sisters huddled under their frayed blanket, legs tangled, eyes glowing in the phone's dim light. Elia scrolled through videos of young creators selling their crafts, baking in tiny kitchens, running businesses from corners of their homes.
Mara watched more quietly, her focus on the numbers—followers, prices, delivery methods. "Most of them are using online stores. Free trials. We'll start there," she said.
Elia grinned. "We don't even have a cake tin."
"We have a bowl. And a stove."
"And no ingredients."
"We start where we are."
So they did.
The next morning, they asked Lena if they could take over the stove after school. Lena raised an eyebrow. "To do what—burn down the house?"
"To bake," Elia said proudly. "Small vanilla cakes. Maybe sell some near the market."
Lena paused. Her arms were sore from the morning shift. Her feet swollen from hours of standing. But when she looked at her daughters, she saw something she didn't have at their age.
A vision.
She nodded. "Don't waste the oil."
They didn't.
With scraped flour from the back shelf, borrowed baking powder from a neighbor, and a dash of sugar they'd hidden in a jar, they made six lumpy, golden cakes. They weren't pretty—but they smelled like hope.
By evening, Elia had snapped blurry photos and uploaded them to a shared message board. Mara followed up with short descriptions, written carefully to sound professional but friendly.
"Fresh Home Cakes. Soft, golden, and made with care. Message to order."
They got one like.
Then one comment.
Then silence.
But the next day, a message blinked in.
"Can I get two for the morning?"
Elia screamed.
They didn't sleep that night.
The order turned into two. Then four. Within a week, they were making ten cakes a night. Lena's hands joined theirs—not just out of love, but survival. The money wasn't much, but it was theirs.
Mara suggested reinvesting. "We upgrade. Better oil, better photos. Make it cleaner."
Elia made a logo using a marker and a cardboard scrap.
They called themselves Bright Rise.
In time, their customers weren't just neighbors. People came from farther streets, drawn by the sweet smell and the buzz online. Every cake wrapped in a reused brown bag. Every bag sealed with a smile and a handwritten note: "Thank you. Come again."
One evening, after an order was picked up by a woman in shiny shoes and a glowing bracelet, Lena sat down beside her daughters and said quietly, "You're changing things."
Mara looked up. "We're just baking."
"No," Lena said, wiping flour from her cheek. "You're building. And I see it."
Elia laughed. "We'll be rich soon."
Lena didn't laugh.
Not because she didn't believe it.
But because part of her already did.