A Place to Roar

Aarav sat alone in the junkyard, his body cloaked in tattered cloth, the chill of the night biting through him like a thousand tiny teeth.

His head hung low, eyes fixed on nothing, while his mind wandered to a place far darker. He had been waiting for something to happen, for some change to break the cycle of silence and hopelessness that held him captive. But as the cold air wrapped around him, so did the feeling of being lost—adrift in a world that seemed too large to understand, too cruel to navigate.

The junkyard was a sea of broken promises and forgotten lives, a world made of rusted metal and decaying wood, just like the life he had been handed. He was nobody here. No one noticed him, no one cared. All he could do was wait. Wait for something to change, or perhaps, for someone to notice the small boy hiding in the shadows of their broken world.

But just as Aarav was about to surrender to the stillness again, a sound broke through the quiet—a rhythmic thud, the sharp scrape of metal against wood. His head jerked up, and his eyes focused on the far end of the junkyard. There, amidst the piles of discarded dreams and broken machines, the old man was working.

He was hammering something into place, his movements slow but purposeful. Aarav had seen him before, always tinkering, always building, but this time he noticed something else. A thick blanket lay folded nearby, and a small tin of food rested on a crate beside a bottle of water.

It wasn't the first night the old man had left these things. Every evening, when Aarav curled into a corner of the junkyard, he would wake to find something waiting for him.

A crust of bread, a bottle of water, or, on rare occasions, a small tin of lentils. At first, he thought it was a coincidence, but now he knew. It was the old man. Quietly, without a word, he was making sure Aarav survived.

The old man's hands, calloused and weathered, moved with purpose. He was building a small house—if it could be called that—pieced together from the junk that surrounded them. It wasn't much, but it was something. Something real.

As the old man worked, he seemed to sense Aarav's gaze. He looked up, his eyes meeting Aarav's across the expanse of the junkyard. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then the old man broke the silence, his voice rough but kind.

"You're still waiting, aren't you?"

The question hung in the air, heavier than the chill. Aarav didn't respond. He wasn't sure how to. Instead, he simply nodded, his throat tight with unspoken words.

The old man wiped his hands on his worn-out shirt and approached, his steps slow but steady. When he reached Aarav, he crouched down to meet his eye level. "This place," he said, gesturing to the junkyard around them, "it's not much. But sometimes, you have to make something out of nothing. If you're going to wait, at least wait somewhere warm."

The old man straightened and extended a hand, mentioning toward the small house he had been working on. Aarav hesitated but eventually stood and followed.

The house was a patchwork of mismatched wood and metal, barely holding together. The roof sagged in places, and the walls leaned precariously, but inside, there was a lantern casting a soft, warm glow. Blankets were piled on the floor, creating a makeshift bed.

"It's not perfect," the old man said, his voice tinged with apology, "but it's yours if you want it."

Aarav stepped inside cautiously, his fingers brushing the edge of the doorframe. The warmth of the lantern and the old man's presence wrapped around him like a fragile shield against the world outside. For the first time in a long while, he felt a faint glimmer of safety.

Aarav sat silently in the dimly lit room, his hands trembling as he stared at the cracked mirror on the wall. His reflection looked back at him, small and unsure.

Old man walked in, holding a lion mask he had made from scraps in the junkyard. The mask was crude but vibrant, painted with bright colors that seemed almost defiant in the gloom of their surroundings.

Without saying a word, old man knelt down and gently placed the mask in Aarav's lap.

Aarav looked up, confused. "What's this?"

Old man smiled. "A reminder," he said simply.

"Of what?"

"That inside every lion, there's a roar waiting to break free," old man replied. He leaned in, his voice softer now, but firm. "You're scared, I can see that. But being scared doesn't mean you're weak. It means you're alive. And as long as you're alive, you can roar."

Aarav's eyes widened as the old man carefully tied the mask around his head. The string was rough, scratching the back of his neck, but the weight of the mask felt... different. He caught his reflection again, now wearing the lion's face.

"See that?" old man said, pointing to the mirror. "That's not just you. That's someone who can take on the world, one step at a time."

Aarav blinked, his throat tight. He didn't speak and he didn't need to. Old man simply ruffled Aarav's hair and stood up.

"I'll be outside," old man said, leaving the room quietly.

Aarav sat there for a long moment, staring at the lion in the mirror. His chest felt heavy, but somewhere deep inside, a spark flickered. It wasn't much, but it was enough to make him clench his fists and take a deep breath.

The lion's mask wasn't just a gift. It was a symbol. A reminder that even in a place as desolate as this junkyard, strength could be found. And maybe, just maybe, Aarav could roar.