Years passed like shadows.
Raza turned eighteen—taller, quieter, stronger, but lonelier.
He still had no friends. He didn't even try anymore.
But at home… he was loved.
Every night he helped his mother cook. Every morning he walked with his father to the market.
They were poor—so poor that some days they ate only once—but together, they smiled, they talked, they survived.
Then one winter night, everything changed.
His mother collapsed while washing clothes.
The doctor said softly, as if ashamed,
"She needs treatment… but it's expensive."
Too expensive.
Raza's father tried everything—borrowing money, selling tools, skipping meals—but nothing was enough.
The illness grew worse. His mother grew weaker. Her smile turned thin. Her voice became soft. Her hands cold.
Raza sat beside her at night, holding her hand, praying with all his heart.
But prayers don't always answer when you're poor,