Where It All Began

The night air carried a quiet stillness, broken only by the distant barking of stray dogs and the occasional rustle of a rat scurrying across the crumbling pavement. The street was dimly lit, the glow of a few remaining streetlights casting long, uncertain shadows. Most of the shops were closed, their metal shutters pulled down tight, as if shutting out the world beyond.

I walked slowly, my breath visible in the December chill, taking in the reality before me.

The first thing I saw was a young boy—no older than eight or nine—crouched beside a small fire made from scraps of wood and trash. He held his hands close to the flickering flames, his thin frame shivering beneath a tattered shirt. His eyes, hollow with exhaustion, flicked up to meet mine before quickly returning to the fire, as if afraid I might take even that small comfort away.

A few steps ahead, another boy lay curled on the cold concrete steps of a shuttered storefront. His bare feet were black with dirt, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest. He slept fitfully, shifting now and then as if trying to escape the hardness of the stone beneath him.