Mrs. Eve was placed on a stretcher, her face still motionless. Richard, Mrs. Eve's son, had just arrived. He rushed to the stretcher, his face ashen with extreme worry. He gripped his mother's hand, trembling as he called out, "Mom, mom, are you okay? " He knew his mother had a history of severe asthma and unstable blood pressure and had fainted a few times before, but never this seriously.
He followed the stretcher, his gaze never leaving his mother. After ensuring the medics were caring for his mother in the ambulance, Richard turned back. He saw the shattered door and his sharp, angry gaze fixed on Malik, who stood huddled nearby. In his mind, the image of a strange child in soiled clothes, standing next to his unconscious mother in a house with a broken door painted a different story. Boy, who are you?
Why is this door broken? Malik felt his heart pounding in his chest as if it wanted to burst out. He tried to explain. I I saw her having a bad asthma attack. I broke the door to save her.
I was looking for her inhaler. But his trembling, panicked words from a skinny 10-year-old boy seemed to fall on deaf ears in the chaos. To them, he was just a suspicious child who appeared in confusing circumstances. A police officer, without a word, roughly grabbed his arm and handcuffed him. The dry, cold click of the metal cuffs echoed, chilling him to the bone.
We need to take you to the station for questioning. Utter fear enveloped Malik. He had done the right thing, but now he was being treated like a criminal. He looked up at the stern faces around him, feeling an overwhelming sense of loneliness. The feeling of being wronged, misunderstood by the whole world, suffocated him.
He didn't resist, just stood silently, eyes welling up, but still trying to maintain his last bit of composure. Malik was pushed into the police car. He huddled in the back seat, his tear-filled eyes looking out the window as the cold, dark night scenery flashed by. At the police station, he was led into a small, cold interrogation room. Harsh fluorescent lights shone directly on his face.
The police officer sat opposite him, tapping his fingers on the table, his eyes sharp and scrutinizing. Tell me again, boy, why did you break into her house? Do you have accomplices? What were you looking for in her house? The questions came in rapid succession, not giving Malik a minute to breathe.
I'm telling the truth. I saw her fall. I was looking for medicine. Each time Malik tried to explain, the officer's tone grew colder, more suspicious. To them, he was just a street kid, a suspect.
In the cold interrogation room, the officer's relentless question swirled around Malik like a suffocating cloud. He felt desperate, pushed to the brink. The stark fluorescent light seemed to pierce his very soul, drawing forth painful memories from his past. He huddled on the rigid chair, his mind drifting back to those cold winter nights when home was a distant concept, a dream that seemed forever out of reach. Malik was only 10.
But his thin black body and his eyes were already too weary for his age. He had nothing. No parents, no siblings, no real home. His home was an abandoned building behind a junkyard in Cudden, South London. The walls were crumbling.
There were no doors, no windows, not even a single light. The only warmth came from his own breath, and occasionally from a small fire made of damp cardboard. His blanket was a dirty tarp, his pillow a plastic bag stuffed with old clothes. He didn't beg, he didn't steal, he just tried to live hidden, preserving his inherent kindness despite life's harsh treatment. Sometimes the biting cold of winter nights kept him from sleeping.
He would curl up in his dirty tarp, trying to lull himself to sleep with meaningless humming melodies he'd heard somewhere. Once he was nearly attacked by a stray dog while rummaging in a dumpster, and that was when he understood that even a scrap of leftover food had to be fought for. Malik had been placed in an orphanage at a very young age, around four, after an event he couldn't recall. He had grown up there, only knowing his name was Malik from a small piece of paper left with him when he was brought to the center. Life in the orphanage was harsh and devoid of affection.
He was constantly bullied by older children, had his food stolen, and felt isolated in a strict, managed environment. Fear and a yearning for freedom drove him. On a cold night when he had just turned nine, Malik gathered his meager belongings and secretly escaped the orphanage, seeking a precarious life on the streets. From then on, the abandoned building became his home. Most days, Malik wandered through the narrow streets, searching for food.
He learned to help busy people for a few spare coins or picked up leftover breadcrumbs from shops. He often stopped in front of brightly lit houses, gazing at the warm scenes inside, smoke curling from chimneys, the clatter of pots and pans, the distant laughter of children. He imagined himself sitting by a fireplace, savoring a warm slice of pie, or being read a fairy tale before bed. These images were both a comfort and a secret torment. Questions about loneliness and the future gnawed at his young mind, making him feel small and lost.
Still, the dream of a home, a warm bed, remained a tiny spark in his dark life. Hours later, when Malik was almost exhausted from fear and hunger, the interrogation room door opened. Another police officer entered, his face no longer held its previous sternness. " Mrs. Eve Willow has woken up, " he said, his voice softening slightly. " She wants to talk to you. "
Malik's heart suddenly pounded strangely, a glimmer of hope after so many hours of torment in the cold police station. At the hospital, Richard stood by his mother's bed, his hand clutching hers, his face still clearly showed his deep concern. Mrs. Eve, though weak, her eyes lit up when she saw her son. She tried to recount what had happened, her voice frail but clear. Richard, my son, that boy saved me.