It was a warm, still midnight on Orient Street, not a whisper to be heard. After the war, the neighborhood was missing most of its residents. They either relocated indefinitely or were waiting for the dust to settle and their homes to be restored. As for those who had already returned, they mostly minded their own business and maintained the silence.

He was a young boy, no older than twelve, short for his age, and as thin as the pole he leaned on. He had his head in his palms and spasmed as he cried. It was clear that he was in pain, but as he did not appear to be injured, the neighbors assumed that he was a street rat and a beggar, and others assumed he was the latest orphan of the war breaking down and cursing his life.

The boy wailed relentlessly and paused only to gasp for air. After a while, he staggered to the middle of the road, stood in the pool of streetlight and raised his head for all to see, for someone to move. But they merely peered through their windows and stood in the dark of their balconies, listening and watching.

As far as sad stories went, everyone had heard more than their fair share, and each had a sad story of their own to tell. They were hoping it was a problem that would go away on its own. But the boy showed no signs of calming down.

It was a passing car that finally yielded.

They rolled down their window and tried to get the boy’s attention, but he did not respond. A man then got out, looked around, and approached him with caution. He bowed to meet the young boy’s face and spoke too softly to be heard.

 In a blend of sobbing and talking, the boy managed to mutter a few words before breaking apart again. Can’t, home, and mom. It seemed the man understood enough, for he reached for his wallet and handed the young boy money and offered him a ride home.

The boy fell to his knees and started wailing.

The man looked around again before he knelt to the boy’s side. And despite his efforts, the boy wouldn’t stop. Every time the boy dropped the money, the man placed it back in his hands. Every time he fell to his knees, the man picked him back up.

The Boy Who Cried For Help