Muadh's house was never an ordinary home—it was a cage whose doors shut firmly against joy.
The father, a man with a thunderous voice, would enter and silence would immediately fall. His word was the first and the last, and whenever conflict arose—even the smallest one—the culprit was always Muadh.
The father would scold him mercilessly:
— "You are the cause of every problem… even the air grows heavy when you pass by!"
And Muadh, the frail child, would lower his head in silence.
He had neither the courage to answer back nor a refuge other than his muteness.
As for the mother… she had once been the light of the house. Her smile filled the corners, her fragrance carried warmth. But illness, that uninvited guest, stole her piece by piece.
She wandered between medicines and weary eyes, trying to stand but collapsing with each passing day.
Muadh watched her being taken away before his eyes, powerless to stop it.
One evening, he sat beside her, his small eyes searching for comfort in her pale face. Suddenly, she lifted her head toward him, gazed at him in confusion, and whispered in a broken voice:
— "Who are you? I don't know you…"
Muadh froze where he stood. Something inside him crumbled. He reached for her trembling hands and said in a quivering voice:
— "Mama… I'm your son… I'm Muadh."
But she closed her eyes, and silence fell once more.
From that moment on, he knew he could rely on no one but himself.
He learned to hide his emotions like everyone else: to smile when asked, to remain silent when he wanted to scream, and to agree even while burning with anger inside.
Yet he kept a small secret—his notebooks.
There, in the blank pages, he wrote down his dreams. He sketched another home, a mother who always laughed, a father who was proud of his son.
Only in those pages did he live the childhood no one had ever given him.
Could the pain hiding in his heart be just the beginning of a wound he has yet to feel?"