Hani was seven. Seven years of scavenging, of dodging cars, of enduring the indifferent gaze of passersby. Seven years of longing for a warm hearth, a soft bed, and the gentle touch of a human hand. Today, his seventh birthday, was no different from any other.
The world was a harsh mistress. The city, a concrete jungle teeming with life, was also a place of utter indifference. Hani was a ghost in this bustling metropolis, a shadow that moved with the rhythm of the streets. His days were a monotonous cycle of hunger, thirst, and the constant search for a safe haven.
There were no birthday wishes, no celebratory barks, no shared joy. Just the relentless tick of time, indifferent to his existence. Hani had long ago given up hope of a home. He was a survivor, a creature adapted to a world that offered little kindness. Yet, in the depths of his weary heart, a tiny ember of hope still flickered. Perhaps, just perhaps, tomorrow would be different.
As the sun began its descent, casting long shadows over the city, Hani found a quiet corner beneath a bridge. The world was hushed, save for the distant rumble of traffic. He curled into a ball, his body trembling from cold and exhaustion. In the darkness, he dreamt of a life beyond the streets, of a warm hearth and a loving family. But when he woke, reality was a stark contrast to his dreams.
Another day had passed, another birthday marked by solitude. Hani was a testament to the fragility of life, a survivor in a world that cared little for its forgotten souls. Yet, in the depths of his weary heart, hope persisted, a tiny spark in the endless night.
