The last Biscuit

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The Last Biscuit

(Short Story)

A boy named Tika lived with his grandmother, Ama, in a small wooden house on a hill. They were poor, but Ama always tried to make life feel warm. Every evening she baked a small batch of biscuits. Not many—just enough for tea.

One cold winter evening, Ama had only enough flour left to make two biscuits. She baked them carefully and placed them on a plate.

Tika came running in, hungry and excited.

Ama pushed the plate toward him and said, “Eat, my son.”

Tika picked one biscuit and ate it quickly. He reached for the second one, but stopped.
Ama’s hands were trembling from the cold. She hadn’t eaten since morning.

He quietly pushed the last biscuit back toward her.

“Ama, you eat.”

Ama smiled softly. “I’m not hungry.”

But Tika knew she was lying. He broke the biscuit into two pieces and gave her one.

“We share,” he said.

Ama looked at him with eyes that suddenly filled with tears. In that moment, she didn’t see a small boy—she saw a young man with a big heart.

Years later, when Ama passed away, Tika found a note hidden inside her old wooden box. It said:

“The richest home is not the one with the most food.
It is the one where people think of each other first.”

Tika kept that note forever.