The Silent Witness

My name is Arham Khan, and I live in Karachi, Pakistan. I always believed my neighborhood was one of the safest and quietest places in the city — until one rainy night when everything I thought I knew was turned upside down.

I

t was past midnight when I woke up to the sound of soft sobbing. At first, I thought it was just my imagination. But then I heard it again — a faint, heart-wrenching cry coming from the street outside my window. My curiosity overpowered my sleepiness. I pushed aside the curtain and peered out.

Under the dim streetlight, I saw a small boy sitting alone in the pouring rain. He couldn’t have been more than six or seven years old. His clothes were drenched, and he was hugging his knees, shivering uncontrollably.

Without thinking twice, I grabbed my umbrella and rushed outside. The rain hit my face like needles as I approached him.

“Hey, little one… what are you doing here all alone? Where are your parents?” I asked gently, kneeling beside him.

He lifted his tear-filled eyes towards me but didn’t say a word. Instead, he held my hand tightly, as if he feared I would leave him too. I could feel his tiny fingers trembling in my palm.

I brought him inside my house, wrapped him in a warm blanket, and gave him some milk. After a while, when he seemed calmer, I tried asking him again. This time, he whispered in a shaky voice that his parents had been taken away by two masked men.

My heart sank. I called the police immediately and explained everything. They promised to send a patrol car right away. In the meantime, I tried to comfort the boy, but he wouldn’t let go of my hand. It felt like he trusted me completely, even though he didn’t know me.

Twenty minutes later, two officers knocked on my door. I turned around to pick up the boy — but to my horror, he was gone. The blanket lay neatly folded on the couch. The milk cup was untouched. There was no sign of him anywhere in the house.

The officers checked every room, every corner, even the backyard, but there was nothing. They looked at me with suspicion, asking if I had imagined it all. But I knew what I had seen. I could still feel his cold, trembling fingers in my hand.

That night changed me forever. I couldn’t sleep for days. I kept wondering who that boy was, where he had come from, and where he had vanished. Some neighbors said they had seen the shadow of a child near my house before — but no one really believed me.

Instead of living in fear or confusion, I decided to take it as a sign. Maybe that boy was a reminder of all the innocent children who suffer alone, unnotic

ed in the darkness of this world. Maybe he was the push I needed to change my own life — and theirs.

Today, three years later, I run a small community school for underprivileged children in my neighborhood. I spend my evenings teaching kids who cannot afford school fees. I share my story with them, not to scare them, but to show them that kindness can change lives — sometimes in ways we can’t even understand.

And sometimes, late at night, when I close my eyes, I still feel a small hand hold mine. A silent witness to my promise — that no child should ever feel alone in the dark again.

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