The air in Rome, Georgia, hung thick and humid, a suffocating blanket even in the shade. On the weathered porch of the Seed family home, the rhythmic thud of a worn leather belt against young flesh was the only sound that dared disturb the oppressive stillness. Seven-year-old Joseph, head bowed, stood rigid, his small frame braced against the sting. He didn't cry, not anymore. His gaze, fixed on the faded porch boards, held a silent defiance, a deep well of suffering that had long since dried up his tears.

From the corner of his eye, he could just make out the well-tended garden of the quiet widow next door, a splash of green in an otherwise desolate landscape. It was a small mercy, a distraction from the kaleidoscopic flashes of a Spider-Man comic book and the dark leather of a Bible, wielded by his father's furious hand. The man's ranting, a familiar blend of religious condemnation and drunken rage, washed over Joseph, meaningless noise against the sharp, burning pain across his back. This was the price of a forbidden story, the cost of a glimpse into a world beyond their own. This was just another Tuesday. But today, something shifted. A whisper, faint at first, began to stir in the silence of his mind, a promise of a different kind of salvation.