sad story

 The biting wind whipped through the tattered edges of Elias’s coat, a constant reminder of the cold that had settled deep in his bones, much like the despair in his heart. He was a boy of ten, his face smudged with grime and etched with a premature weariness. He lived in the forgotten alleyways of the city, a creature of shadows and scraps. His home was a rough cardboard box tucked precariously behind a bakery, the only warmth it offered a meager respite from the unforgiving elements.

Elias remembered a time, hazy and fragmented like a half-forgotten dream, when he had a home with a real roof and a mother whose laughter was as bright as the sun. He remembered the smell of baking bread, not the stale scent that clung to the air around his box. He remembered a worn teddy bear, its fur matted but loved, which now lay somewhere, lost to the chaos that had claimed his life.

His days were a monotonous cycle of hunger and cold. He scavenged for food in overflowing bins, his fingers often freezing as he sorted through the discarded scraps. Often, he found nothing. The pang in his stomach was a constant companion, a gnawing ache that mirrored the emptiness within him.

The other street children, hardened by similar circumstances, offered little comfort. They were focused on survival, their eyes narrowed with distrust. Elias, with his gentle nature and lingering hope, found himself an outsider in their pack. He yearned for connection, for a kind word, a gentle touch, but these were luxuries he couldn't afford.

One day, as the sky bled a bruised purple, Elias found a discarded book in a dusty corner of the alley. It was a collection of fairy tales, its pages worn and dog-eared. He didn’t know how to read, but he was drawn to the colourful illustrations, to the magical worlds they depicted. He clutched it to his chest, a new kind of ache tugging at his heart.

That night, huddled in his cardboard box, the flickering light of a streetlamp casting long, dancing shadows, Elias traced the lines of the pictures with his finger. He imagined himself as a brave knight, fighting dragons and rescuing princesses. He imagined a world where kindness and hope reigned, a world far removed from the harsh reality of his life.

One particular illustration caught his eye: a vibrant picture of a family gathered around a warm fire, their faces alight with happiness. A single tear traced a path through the grime on Elias’s cheek. He longed for that warmth, for that sense of belonging. He longed for a mother’s embrace, a father’s strong hand, a home where he was safe and loved.

He closed the book, the weight of his despair pressing down on him like a physical burden. He was just a poor boy, alone in the vast, indifferent city. He knew that the fairy tales were just that – tales. They wouldn't come to life for him. He was destined to live in this cold, lonely reality, forgotten by the world.

He curled up in his box, shivering despite the layers of tattered clothes. The book was still tucked close to his chest, a small spark of hope in the darkness. It wouldn’t feed him, or warm him, but for a few stolen moments, it offered a glimpse into a world where even a poor boy could dream of being happy.

And as the city slept, Elias, the forgotten boy, dreamt of dragons and knights, of warm fires and loving families, all the while knowing that when the sun rose, he would wake up to the same cold, empty reality, his heart heavy with a sadness that seemed to have no end. He was just a poor boy, very, very sad, and the weight of his sadness was as heavy as the city itself.