From afar, the family appeared like a painting crafted by the hand of a master:
laughter fluttered through the air like tiny birds, warm embraces wrapped around bodies, and eyes sparkled with love like stars in a clear sky.
But the truth, as Muadh would later learn, was that appearances deceive…
His small footsteps drew closer, and with every step he felt he was not entering an ordinary home, but approaching the stage of a grand theater.
There, behind the doors, each member wore a perfect mask:
the stern father, the silent mother, the siblings absorbed in their roles.
Faces beautiful on the surface, but behind the masks lay weary eyes and shuttered hearts.
Inside, silence reigned, as if the house itself feared its own voice.
No warmth, no genuine laughter.
Words were thrown like snow on a freezing night.
Towering walls stood in silence… witnesses to hearts imprisoned within the shell of selfishness.
Muadh wondered to himself, a child no older than seven:
"Are all homes like this? Are all smiles nothing but a curtain hiding something else?"
He had no answer, but he felt an early suffocation… as if the house was stealing away his childhood before it could bloom.