The Silent Boy Who Never Grew Up

The Silent Boy Who Never Grew Up

I had just accepted a new job as the night custodian of an old orphanage in the outskirts of Lahore. It was called Dar-ul-Zia, a crumbling colonial-era building wrapped in mist and memory. The pay wasn’t great, but I needed the peace.

The place had long ceased to take in children. Only five boys remained, most near adoption age. The headmistress, Madam Seher, was firm but kind — though she seemed uneasy around a certain room on the second floor.

“You don’t need to clean Room 11,” she told me on my first day. “It’s always locked.”

I didn’t ask why. Old places have stories, I thought. It wasn’t my business.

That was my first mistake.

On my third night, I heard it — footsteps above me. Light, slow, like a child’s. But it was well past bedtime. I went up, flashlight trembling in hand. All doors were closed. Except one.

Room 11.

It stood ajar, dark inside. I hesitated.

Then I saw him.

A little boy, perhaps seven years old, sat cross-legged in the far corner. He wore an outdated school uniform — white shirt, navy shorts — and had neatly combed hair. He didn’t look up.

“Beta, it’s late,” I whispered. “What are you doing here?”

No answer.

I stepped closer. The air felt heavier near him. Thick, cold.

“Where’s your room?”

Still no response. I knelt beside him.

His eyes were open — lifeless, staring into nothing.

His lips, dry and pale.

His hands, perfectly still on his knees.

Then I saw something that made my heart slam against my ribs.

A date etched into the wall behind him:

1972 — Zayan

“What the…”

That wasn’t possible. This boy couldn’t have been alive in 1972. He looked brand new. Fresh. As if he had arrived yesterday.

I backed away slowly.

The next morning, I asked Madam Seher. Her face drained of color.

“You saw him?” she whispered. “Zayan?”

I nodded.

She sighed, trembling. “He came here in 1972. Was found at the gate. No records. No parents. He never spoke. Never ate. Never moved. Just sat in that room.”

“For how long?”

She looked at me.

“Until now.”

“No,” I said. “That’s impossible.”

“We stopped taking children in the '80s. Zayan never left. No one could touch him. Some tried. They all… left.”

“Left?”

“Quit. Or worse.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“I’ve seen him every year,” she continued. “He never blinks. Never changes. Just watches. Like he's waiting.”

“For what?” I asked.

She didn’t answer.

That night, I dreamt of him. His face, inches from mine. His lips moved.

“It’s your turn.”

I woke in sweat.

When I checked Room 11, he wasn’t there.

But now, my reflection doesn’t blink when I do. I hear footsteps behind me even when I’m alone. My knees hurt as if I’ve been sitting for hours. And every night, I see a child in my mirror.

Wearing navy shorts. Staring.

Waiting.

I think I know now.

He never grew up.

Because someone always took his place.