When Hope Cries

The room was dim, filled only with the soft hum of the old ceiling fan. Aarav's eyelids fluttered open, his vision blurry, and his head heavy with the weight of exhaustion. He blinked a few times, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar surroundings. The scent of antiseptic and something faintly herbal filled the air.

A soft rustling sound caught his attention. He turned his head, still disoriented, and saw a man sitting next to him. The man had a rugged face, his dark beard giving him a kind yet weathered appearance. His eyes were warm but tired, as though he had been waiting for this moment to come.

"How are you feeling now?" the man asked gently, his voice a little rough, like he hadn't spoken much in the past few hours.

Aarav didn't answer right away. He stared at the ceiling, his mind drifting. The words the man spoke didn't seem to reach him. His thoughts were elsewhere, back in the darkness of that junkyard, in the cold and the despair.

[Flashback]

It was almost night when the man, accompanied by a small dog, made his way through the rusted remains of the junkyard. He had been here many times before, checking the perimeter, looking for anything worth salvaging. But tonight felt different. The air was still, too still. Even the dog, usually full of energy, seemed uneasy, its nose twitching at the scent of something unfamiliar.

Suddenly, the dog barked loudly, darting toward a pile of discarded car parts. The man followed, his heart racing. There, in the middle of the junk, he found a boy—barely more than a child—lying curled up in the dirt, wrapped in a tattered cloth. His body was thin, his skin covered in dirt, and his face was pale, as if he had been forgotten by the world.

The man's heart twisted with a mix of anger and sorrow. Without a second thought, he scooped the boy up, his frail form light in his arms. The dog followed them silently as the man carried the boy back to his modest home, calling for a doctor even though he knew he wasn't well-off enough to afford such luxuries. But this boy, with the dirt and the bruises on his face, deserved something better.

"I've got you, little one," the man whispered, though the boy was too weak to hear him. "You're not alone anymore."

[End of Flashback]

Aarav blinked again, his vision clearing a little. The man beside him was still waiting, his eyes filled with concern but also something softer, almost like a protective instinct. The man had a rough exterior, but there was a kindness in his eyes, a care that Aarav hadn't seen in a long time.

When Aarav's eyes fluttered open again, he saw the same man sitting on a wooden stool beside the bed. His scruffy beard and unkempt hair gave him a rugged look, but his kind, dark eyes softened the rough edges. He wore a faded checkered shirt, and his calloused hands rested on his knees.

"You're awake," the man said, his voice deep but warm, carrying a rough edge that matched his appearance. "How are you feeling now, kid?"

Aarav didn't answer. His body felt drained, too tired to speak, but more than that, his mind was still trapped in the shadows of his past. The memories of the junkyard and the night seemed to weigh him down.

The man sighed when Aarav didn't respond. His eyes softened as he leaned back in his chair. "Forget it," he said gently, trying not to push. "You're tired. It's already night. Sleep here—we'll talk later."

Aarav didn't move, but the exhaustion in his small frame was impossible to miss. His body gave in before his mind could protest, and soon, he sank into an uneasy sleep, his breathing shallow but steady.

The room was silent, save for the faint rustling of leaves outside. The man stirred awake just before dawn, a strange feeling tugging at his senses. His eyes darted to the bed, and his heart skipped a beat—Aarav was gone.

Quickly pulling on his boots, he stepped outside, the chill of the early morning air biting at his skin. The world was still veiled in darkness, with only the faintest glow of light at the horizon. He squinted, spotting a small figure moving toward the junkyard.

He followed quietly, his footsteps muffled by the soft earth. As the boy's frail silhouette disappeared into the labyrinth of rusted scraps, the man's breath caught in his throat. Aarav stopped at the same hollow where he'd been found the night before.

The boy crouched down, his tiny frame trembling as he pulled the same tattered cloth over his shoulders. He sat in silence, his head bowed, hugging his knees as if trying to make himself disappear.

The man's chest tightened, a sharp ache spreading through him as he watched. Aarav looked so small, so broken, like he was trying to return to the only place he'd known—no matter how harsh, no matter how unkind.

He couldn't stay silent any longer. Stepping forward, his voice cracked as he spoke, "Why, kid? Why are you back here?"

Aarav didn't respond at first. His eyes were downcast, his fingers clutching the ragged cloth around him. He spoke so quietly, barely a whisper, that the man didn't catch it.

"Sister…" Aarav's voice trembled, almost inaudible. But the man didn't hear it.

He leaned in closer, trying to meet the boy's gaze. "What did you say?"

Aarav's lips quivered, his heart aching with the weight of his words. This time, he spoke more clearly, his broken voice carrying the full weight of his desperation.

"Sister... sister will be back…" Aarav's voice cracked as he looked up, his eyes filled with a quiet, unwavering hope, despite the pain that had marked him so deeply.

The man froze, feeling the raw sorrow in those words. He knew the truth—that the sister would never return—but seeing the boy's fragile hope, he couldn't bear to break it just yet. Instead, he stayed silent, letting the moment linger in the cold, early morning air.