Chapter 1: Suffering
Even when you are suffering, keep a smile.
It was a beautiful morning.
A boy woke up in his bed and rubbed his eyes. When he looked around his room, he froze for a moment. The walls were decorated. Colorful ribbons hung from the corners. Small lights blinked softly.
Then he remembered.
It was his birthday.
Before he could even sit up properly, his mother and father entered the room with smiles and presents in their hands. They wished him, hugged him, and laughed as he opened his gifts. The boy smiled the whole time — wide, bright, careless.
The day passed happily.
In the evening, the family sat inside a restaurant. The table was full. Plates of food, drinks, desserts — more than enough. The boy ate while talking excitedly, his parents watching him with affection.
You think this story is about that boy?
No.
Across the road, a pair of eyes was watching.
Not the decorations.
Not the birthday.
Mostly… the food.
Two children sat near the street. They were beggars. The girl was around five or six. Beside her was her brother, slightly older.
The sister stared at the restaurant without blinking.
"We used to eat food like that, right?" she asked quietly.
"Why can't we eat like that now, brother?"
The brother immediately covered her eyes with his hand.
"Don't look," he whispered. "If the shop owner sees us staring, he'll come and kick us out."
Then, more softly, "If we get beaten, we won't be able to buy medicine."
He pulled her away from the place.
Neither of them knew that earlier that day, the sister had drunk dirty water from the street.
They reached the small place they now called home — barely a shelter. The brother made her sit down.
"Don't go anywhere," he said. "I'll come back."
He went out again.
He begged.
He asked shop owners if there was any work.
Cleaning, carrying, anything.
No one helped.
Hours passed.
Then luck appeared — and disappeared immediately.
A random man dropped a piece of bread on the ground. He looked at it for a second, decided it wasn't worth picking up, and walked away.
The boy rushed toward it.
Before he could reach it, someone stepped on it.
The person didn't notice.
Didn't realize he had crushed two children's food.
Didn't apologize.
The boy didn't shout.
Didn't cry.
Didn't get angry.
He picked up the part of the bun that was still untouched and smiled.
"This will help my sister," he thought.
Holding it carefully, he hurried back.
When he reached the shelter, he called out softly.
"Sister?"
No answer.
He stepped inside.
She was lying on the floor, exactly where he had left her. Curled up. Quiet.
He smiled.
"She must be sleeping."
He went closer and showed the bun.
"Look," he said gently, "I brought food."
She didn't move.
He touched her hand.
Cold.
Not the kind of cold that goes away.
The kind that stays.
He shook her lightly.
"Sister… stop joking."
Nothing.
Her chest didn't rise.
Her breathing wasn't there.
Her body was still.
The boy sat there for a long time.
The smile stayed on his face — because his mind refused to accept the truth.
Then the bun slipped from his hand.
Only then did the smile disappear.
Not into screams.
Not into tears.
Into silence.
Outside, people laughed.
Cars passed.
A boy somewhere blew out birthday candles.
Inside a small shelter, another boy learned what suffering really meant.
Sometimes suffering doesn't come with pain.
Sometimes it comes quietly —
and stays forever.
.
.
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Thank you for reading
This is my new story