The Rooftop Cry:

The monsoon season had always been both a blessing and a curse for Ayesha’s village. The rains watered the fields, filled the wells, and brought life to the thirsty earth. But this time, the clouds carried more than nourishment—they carried destruction. For days the rain poured, heavier than anyone could remember, and the rivers that once fed the land turned into raging beasts that devoured everything in their path.

By the fifth day, the streets had disappeared beneath brown, swirling water. Homes collapsed, animals drowned, and families scrambled to higher ground. In the middle of it all stood Ayesha, a young widow of barely thirty, clutching her two children on the rooftop of her crumbling house.

Her son, Hamza, was seven years old, with curious eyes that had once sparkled with mischief. Her daughter, Noor, was only four, still clinging to the comfort of her mother’s lap. Ayesha held them both close, her shawl soaked through, her body trembling—not from the cold but from fear she dared not show her children.

The water below surged with fury. Broken doors, wooden beams, plastic containers, and even dead goats floated past in the current. The sound of rushing water mixed with the cries of children from other rooftops, the desperate calls of men for rescue boats, and the eerie groan of collapsing walls.

Ayesha shouted until her throat ached.
“Help us! Please, someone help us!”

Her voice carried across the flooded street. On a nearby rooftop, a family of five huddled together. On another, an old man waved a piece of cloth at the distant rescue boat. Volunteers paddled past in an overloaded dinghy, faces grim, eyes avoiding the outstretched hands of those they couldn’t save.

No one answered her cries. No one threw her a rope. No one came.

Hamza looked up at her with wide eyes. “Mama… will we be okay?”

Ayesha’s heart clenched. She wanted to tell him the truth—that she was terrified, that the water was still rising, that their house might crumble any moment. But a mother’s heart does not surrender so easily. She forced a smile, smoothing back his wet hair.
“Yes, my jaan. Allah is with us. I will never let anything happen to you.”

Noor whimpered, burying her face in her mother’s shawl. Ayesha kissed her daughter’s head, whispering soothing words she barely believed herself. She kept looking at the horizon, praying to see another boat, another chance.

But as the hours passed, the water climbed higher. First it swallowed the ground floor. Then it lapped at the windows of the second. The walls trembled as though the house itself was groaning under the weight of the flood. Ayesha could feel the vibrations beneath her bare feet.

The storm clouds above offered no mercy. The rain fell harder, as if the sky itself was determined to drown them.

Ayesha’s thoughts raced. Memories flashed before her eyes—her husband’s smile before fate took him too soon, Hamza’s first steps on the courtyard bricks, Noor’s giggle as she played with her dolls. She thought of her small garden where she once grew mint and coriander, of the neighbors who used to borrow salt and sugar from her kitchen. All of it was gone, swallowed by the water that showed no kindness, no pause, no remorse.

She fell to her knees, clutching her children tighter.
“Ya Allah,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “If not me, then at least save my babies. Please, let someone see them. Let someone save them.”

But her prayers were drowned out by the roar of the flood.

With a deafening crack, the foundation of the house gave way. The rooftop tilted violently. Ayesha screamed, pulling her children close as the world shifted beneath them.

And then the water claimed them.

The current tore through like a monster, dragging them off the roof, spinning them in its merciless grip. Ayesha fought, holding on to her children with all the strength in her body. She kicked, she thrashed, she refused to let go. Her arms burned, her lungs screamed for air, but she clung to Hamza and Noor as though sheer willpower could keep them afloat.

But the flood was stronger than a mother’s arms.

Her last memory was the terrified cry of her children as the current pulled them apart, their small bodies slipping from her grasp. She reached out, screaming their names, but the water swallowed her voice, carrying them into its endless, raging darkness.

From the rooftops, people watched. Some cried. Some turned away, unable to bear the sight. None moved to help.

By morning, the storm had passed. The waters began to recede, leaving behind broken houses, lifeless animals, and the silence of grief. Ayesha’s rooftop stood half-buried in mud, its edges broken, its walls shattered. No trace remained of the mother and her children who had fought so desperately against the flood.

But those who had witnessed her cries never forgot. In the village, people spoke of her bravery, of how she clung to her children until the very end. Her story became a painful memory, a haunting reminder of nature’s cruelty and the unbearable silence of human helplessness.

And sometimes, on stormy nights, villagers swore they could still hear her echo across the water—
“Help us! Please, someone help my children!”

A cry that never truly faded, a cry that belonged to every mother who had ever fought against the world to protect her children.