Amidst the sirens wailing and the villagers gathering around the heart-wrenching scene, the boy stood there, isolated and shattered. His once vibrant world had crumbled in the blink of an eye, leaving him lost in a sea of despair.
"MOMMY, MOMMY, WAKE UP, PLEASE! GRANDPA, HELP MOM, PLEASE!"
"WHY WON'T ANYONE HELP MY MOM? WHERE ARE YOU, DAD? I'M SCARED!"
"I'M SCARED, PLEASE, PLEASE HELP MY MOM!"
Overwhelmed with grief and terror, he continued to cry out for his parents, as if his sheer willpower could bring them back. But there was only a painful silence, punctuated by the grim wreckage before him.
"AHHHHHHHH, PLEASE, PLEASE, I BEG OF YOU."
The villagers, despite their own sorrow, felt the weight of responsibility toward the boy. They tried to offer comfort; their words were barely audible against the torrent of his emotions. A compassionate woman approached and gently rested a hand on his trembling shoulder.
"Sweetie, we're here for you. We'll take care of you," she said, her voice filled with empathy.
"AUNTY, HELP MY MOM, SHE'S HURT, SHE'S BLEEDING, MOMMY IS BLEEDING, MOMMY WON'T WAKE UP."
The woman looked at him, her eyes wavering, unsure of how to respond to the boy's desperate pleas.
"AUNTY, PLEASE, PLEASE… WHY WON'T YOU HELP MOMMY? AUNTY!!!"
But the boy, in his anguish, couldn't grasp the meaning of her words. He pushed her hand away, his gaze still fixed on the lifeless forms of his parents. His world had shattered into a million pieces, and the idea of rebuilding it seemed impossible.
There was no longer any joy in his eyes. A happy day, a happy life, a hopeful future had all vanished in just a few hours. There was no justice to be found. He was now a poor orphaned boy, and what could he even do?
"WHY? WHY? WHY?"
As the hours turned into days, the boy's grief seemed to deepen. He refused food and water, his once vibrant spirit now replaced by a hollow emptiness. The villagers never gave up, though. They took turns sitting with him, offering silent support.
"Don't you think one of us should take him in? I think he's starving."
"I did make an effort, but that once lively boy won't even engage in a conversation with me anymore."
"I noticed him rummaging through my garbage yesterday. What do you suggest I should do?"
"If you saw him doing that, why not offer him some food?"
"It's not that simple. He avoids talking to anyone, and I can't manage to support another child. It's already a struggle with my own kids."
"It's other people's kids, things happen. Why don't we place him in an orphanage?"
"You think we haven't tried? The village chief attempted it, but the boy refused to leave his home. There's no orphanage around here, only one in the city, and I guess he doesn't want to leave his home."
Sometimes, when he couldn't make ends meet, he would dig through the trash, looking for plastic bottles, metal cans, or cardboard to sell at a recycling facility for money. Other times, if luck was on his side, he would find relatively new-looking clothes, leftover food, or even discarded toys. After all, he was just a child, and what else could he do?
"Lucas, how about this? If you help me with my housework, I'll give you some money."
"Lucas, will you help me clean my house? You can eat with us."
"Lucas, can you help look after my children? They're not as mature as you."
Every evening, under the moon's gentle illumination upon the lake, the young boy would find himself in solitude, his mind consumed by recollections of happier days. The echoes of his parents' laughter lingered, and the embrace of their love still enveloped him, as if they were a constant presence in his waking hours.
"If I help Aunty, will Aunty help me?"
"Ah, I'm sorry, little boy. Our family can't support another mouth to feed; it's already difficult enough. How about this, little one? We'll give you a job. That might be the best solution."
The passage of time had etched lines of resilience onto the young man's face. He no longer carried the fragile air of a boy; instead, he had grown into a stoic, weathered figure, the embodiment of enduring sorrow. The people of the village watched his transformation with a mix of sympathy and admiration for his unwavering strength.
"Do you think the boy seems lifeless these days? To be honest, I'm slowly getting scared of him."
"Hush, keep it down. He might hear you. If you want to talk about him, speak softly. The boy has sharp ears."
"She's right. Since his parents passed away years ago, he's remained this way. I genuinely sympathize with him, but our own lives are challenging. It's disheartening to see that the little boy from back then is still the same boy we see today."
The boy, as if sensing their gaze, looked over with a hollow expression, devoid of emotion, as if he didn't care. He turned his head away and walked off.
"Do you think he heard us?"
"Nah, I don't think so. That's just his default expression nowadays."
His days remained monotonous, centered around the same routines that had sustained him for years. He continued to fish in the calm waters of the lake, his catch providing just enough to put food on his table and a roof over his head. The odd jobs he did for others earned him meager cash, barely enough to cover his basic needs.
Despite the lake's serene stillness, the young man discovered solace within its routine. This body of water, with its glistening surface mirroring the ever-changing sky, transformed into his refuge. By the water's edge, he would sit, observing the graceful dance of ripples and embracing the soft, rhythmic caress of its gentle laps. During those interludes, he sensed a profound connection to something beyond himself, a poignant reminder that life, even in its harshest moments, retained its intrinsic beauty.
"How about this, Lucas? How about you work as our housekeeper? You can quit that construction job of yours. It pains my heart to see you work day and night like a hollow shell."
"It's okay, Aunty. They pay well there, and I'm getting used to it."
"Don't lie to me, Lucas. I heard yesterday a piece of construction cement fell from the top onto you. Look, you're still bleeding."
"Ah, that? It's fine, Aunty. I was wearing a helmet at the time, so it's not that serious."
"I give up; you're getting more and more stubborn. Okay, here, take this bag, consider it a gift, and stop carrying that basket around like a bag. Come to me whenever you have any trouble."
The villagers never stopped trying to reach out to him, their acts of kindness persistent and unwavering. They understood that time alone could not mend a broken heart, but they hoped that their support might offer some small comfort. Occasionally, someone would bring him a warm meal, a simple act that spoke volumes of their care.
"Ah, uncle, that's enough; I already have enough rice."
"Just take it, Lucas. Consider it a guilty apology to your parents that I couldn't afford to take you in."
"It's okay, uncle, but you don't have to give me anything. Selling vegetables is already hard enough to earn a sustainable income. I don't want to burden you."
"Just take it, Lucas. Even if I only sell vegetables every day, losing a couple of kilograms of rice won't hurt me. I'll talk to my wife; she'll understand."
The passage of years didn't erase his pain, but it did teach him to carry it differently. He began to open up, ever so slightly, to the world around him. The conversations he once avoided now became an occasional part of his life. He would listen to the stories and laughter of others, sometimes even sharing a smile or a quiet word.
"Lucas, your 16th birthday is just around the corner. You have the option to take a week off, as the team at the construction site has unanimously agreed to handle your workload in your absence. Enjoy yourself, and here's your paycheck."
"Ah, really? But today isn't payday, sir."
"Just take it, use it for your birthday."
As the seasons followed their natural cycles, the boy who had been left broken and alone had transformed into a young man who, although forever marked by tragedy, had found a way to carry his pain alongside the memories of his parents. Their love remained a guiding star in his life, a light to navigate the dark corners of his heart.
"Mom, Dad, today your son Lucas turns 16. I wish you both could witness this."
Perhaps someday, he thought, he might find a way to share his story, to let others know that healing was not a destination but a journey. That even in the deepest despair, there could be a glimmer of hope, a spark of resilience, and a path toward rebuilding a life shattered by tragedy. Until then, he would continue to cast his nets into the lake, both fishing for sustenance and searching for a way to mend his wounded soul.