شاب اسمه فارس يبكي كل يوم بس
شاب اسمه فارس يبكي كل يوم بسبب ذكريات طفولته المؤلمة
The worn, wooden floorboards of the attic creaked under فارس’s bare feet as he shuffled towards the window. The sun, a pale sliver on the horizon, cast long shadows across the dusty furniture, giving the space an air of melancholic stillness. It was a familiar scene, one that repeated every morning. The scene of his torment.
His eyes, red-rimmed and swollen, mirrored the desolation of the attic. Each creak, each dust particle swirling in the weak light, was a trigger. A reminder. A memory. He couldn’t escape the past, even in the solitude of the forgotten attic.
The attic was his sanctuary, his haven from the world, a place where he could indulge in his silent sorrow. But it was also the place where his memories resided, each corner a portal to a past he desperately wanted to forget.
He remembered the laughter, the carefree days, the warmth of his family. But those memories were drowned out by the darkness. The day his world shattered. The day the accident took his parents, leaving him an orphan at the tender age of ten.
He remembered the hospital, the sterile white walls, the whispers of doctors and nurses, the chilling finality of his father’s silence. The cold, empty space where his mother’s warmth used to be.
And then the silence. The deafening silence that engulfed him, a suffocating blanket of grief and loneliness. He was just a child, lost and alone, carrying the weight of the world on his fragile shoulders.
He had found solace in the attic, in the dusty books and forgotten toys, in the echo of laughter that no longer existed. It was a world frozen in time, a world where his parents were still alive, where his childhood wasn’t marred by tragedy.
But the past refused to stay buried. The sun rising each morning was a cruel reminder of the life he had lost. It brought with it a fresh wave of pain, a fresh onslaught of memories.
Today, as he stood by the window, the rising sun cast a golden light on a chipped porcelain doll, a relic from his childhood. It was a doll his mother had bought him, her eyes sparkling with love as she held it in her hands. He remembered her gentle touch, her warm embrace, and a sob escaped his lips.
He closed his eyes, the doll’s face blurring through his tears. He was drowning in a sea of sorrow, the pain of his past threatening to consume him. It felt like he was always on the brink of collapse, his world constantly on the verge of breaking apart.
But amidst the darkness, a flicker of hope. His aunt, who had taken him in after the accident, had been trying to pull him out of his shell. She had seen the torment in his eyes, the sorrow etched on his face. She had tried to fill the void, to bring back the light to his life.
He remembered her gentle words, her patient coaxing, her unwavering love. It was a light, a small spark, that refused to be extinguished.
He opened his eyes, the attic now bathed in the warm morning light. He saw the dust particles dancing in the sunbeams, a mesmerizing ballet of light and shadow. It was a scene of beauty, a stark contrast to the darkness within him.
He took a deep breath, the air heavy with the scent of dust and forgotten memories. He was still hurting, still haunted by the past, but a glimmer of hope had pierced through the darkness. He knew he wouldn’t forget, but he also knew that he wouldn’t let the past define him. He would find a way to live, to find joy, to find peace.
He wouldn’t let the darkness consume him. He would let the light in. He would find a way to heal, to rise above the pain, to find a new beginning. And he would do it, one sunrise at a time.
