The Shadow of a Dream

The Shadow of a Dream

In one of the city’s oldest neighborhoods lived a young man named Yassin. He did not own much—no spacious house, no wealth to speak of—but he carried something far more precious: a dream that refused to sleep. Yassin longed to become a writer, to fill the world with his words, and to leave behind an imprint that would outlast the narrow alleys where he had grown up.

Every morning, before the marketplace roared to life, Yassin would sit by a small window overlooking the street and begin to write. His notebook was filled with fragments—short reflections, unfinished stories, and lines that captured the tension between hope and fear. For him, words were not just ink on paper; they were a doorway to a wider world.

Life, however, was not gentle. His father worked as a street vendor, his mother cleaned houses to help pay the bills. They often reminded him, “Words don’t put food on the table, Yassin. Find real work.” He would smile quietly, hiding his notebook in an old wooden drawer, as if protecting a treasure no one else could understand.

One night, while writing about a child searching for freedom, the electricity in the neighborhood went out. Yassin lit a small candle and continued scribbling. The flickering flame seemed to breathe life into his sentences, as though the words themselves wanted to escape the page. He wrote until dawn, finally collapsing in exhaustion over his papers.

The next day, he made a bold decision. He uploaded one of his stories to the internet, choosing a platform called Vocal. The piece was titled The Shadow of a Dream. He expected nothing, but he felt as though he had taken his first step into the wider world. Days later, a notification appeared: his story was being read, commented on, and shared. Strangers from distant places wrote to him: “Your story feels like my own life,” and “Your words gave me hope.” For the first time, Yassin realized his dream was not an illusion—it was a seed beginning to grow.

As weeks passed, Yassin wrote more regularly, sharing his stories and receiving feedback from readers he had never met. He no longer felt trapped in a narrow alley; he had become part of a global community of dreamers and writers. His financial situation did not change overnight, but something deeper shifted inside him. He began to see himself not as a poor young man, but as a writer with a voice.

One evening, his father sat beside him and said, “I read your latest story. I didn’t understand everything, but I felt it came from your heart. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe words do feed the soul before they feed the body.” Yassin smiled, knowing he had won—not against poverty alone, but against doubt itself.

The story of Yassin is not finished. He continues to write, continues to dream. What he has learned is simple yet profound: a dream, no matter how fragile, can become a shadow that follows its owner everywhere, offering strength invisible to ot

One evening, his father sat beside him and said, “I read your latest story. I didn’t understand everything, but I felt it came from your heart. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe words do feed the soul before they feed the body.” Yassin smiled, knowing he had won—not against poverty alone, but against doubt itself.

his sentences, as though the words themselves wanted to escape the page. He wrote until dawn, finally collapsing in exhaustion over his papers. Life, however, was not gentle. His father worked as a street