By: Seyyed Mohammad Javad Mousavi

It was a night like any other. The wealthy, with full stomachs and full pockets, slept the sleep of kings, while the office workers, with their meager wages—half-satisfied, half-starved—had somehow drifted off to sleep anyway.

The air was cold and biting, the chill like a dagger to the ribs of that third group—the ones whom even God, it seemed, had forgotten. The most forsaken. Those whose only worry, for months now, had been a crust of stale bread.

Those whose numbers dwindled night after night, yet as days, weeks, months, years, and decades passed, they were trampled under history’s heel without so much as a glance. Those whose blood, it seemed, ran paler than the rest of humanity’s.

A gaunt, skeletal boy crouched in a corner between the trash and the wall, shivering. A foul smell hit you from ten meters away, sour enough to darken even your exalted mood. But he was used to it by now. In fact, the garbage bin beside him acted as a shield against the stinging lashes of the icy midnight wind.
It had been nearly two days since he’d eaten anything but a handful of dry bread, and hunger gnawed at him. His coughs were frequent and blood-streaked, his eyes sunken and hollow. His emaciated body was covered in bites from insects, large and small.

Meanwhile, an old man with a cigarette dangling from his lips shuffled along unsteadily, his uneven, sharp beard obscuring his mouth.

He was cold and hungry too, his clothes hanging off him in tatters. At least walking kept him somewhat warm. As he trudged along, a harsh, grating cough caught his attention. He turned his head, searching for the source.

“Who’s there? Who the hell are you, out at this hour? Boy, you should be home right now, warm and fast asleep. Where’s your mother? Your father?”

But no answer came—only the boy’s dry, blood-flecked coughs. The old man stepped closer, bending down.

“Why won’t you answer me?” He spat his cigarette to the side. “What, are you mute, kid?”

The boy forced his lips apart with great effort: “Food… please… h… h-help!”

The old man widened his eyes and stared intently at the boy: “Wait a second. You don’t look so good, kiddo. What’s wrong? … Did you say you’re hungry?”

The boy coughed violently, flecks of blood spraying onto the old man’s face. Yet, with immense effort, he managed a weak nod.

The old man carefully wiped away the bloodstains with his sleeve and straightened up: “Hold on for two minutes—let me see what I can do.”

The boy coughed again.

The old man set off, first retracing his steps and scouring the area for several meters. But there was nothing—just dust and emptiness. He glanced around: the dirt-covered street, houses with owners fast asleep, and assorted shops of all kinds. With quicker steps, he headed toward the back alley, but even there—not a single moldy, stale crust of bread.

Then, suddenly, an idea struck him.

A few minutes later, the sound of shattering glass echoed through the street as a policeman chased after an old man. A shard of the broken shop window still clutched in his hand, the old man winced against the biting cold.

The officer blew his whistle, shattering the night’s silence, shouting warnings and threats to shoot as he tried to apprehend the thief. But the old man was faster than expected—his frail yet agile body darting through the alleys. He slipped into a narrow lane, then veered right at a fork, squeezing through the first tight passage to hurry back toward the street where the boy lay. His breath came in ragged gasps, his throat parched. The howls of stray dogs followed him; for a moment, he imagined himself one of them.
Spotting the boy in the distance, he forced a smile and quickened his pace, wheezing as he called out:
“Hey, kid! Look what I got for you. Come on, eat a little—get your strength back!”

He took a few steps closer, stopping just an arm’s length away—then froze. The ground around the boy was streaked with blood from his coughing fits. The old man dropped the bread, tore off his tattered coat, and draped it over the child. The policeman’s whistle pierced the air, now dangerously close. But the man didn’t care. Tears streamed down his face as he screamed:

“Kid! The food… I swear to God, it’s real. Isn’t this what you wanted? Get up! This is no time to sleep…”
The officer raised his gun, barking orders to stand down. The old man stood still—then let out a cry from the depths of his soul, a roar brimming with hatred, misery, and grief. The policeman, startled by the sound, jerked his trigger in fear.

Now, the two were finally full. No more pain. No more sorrow. The boy slept beside the kind old man—a long, unending sleep.

Days passed. No one noticed. Years later, others would join them in that quiet oblivion, and no one would spare a thought.

Are we even human anymore?