The rain had just stopped that night.
In a small town tucked between quiet hills, a baby's cry broke through the still air. The room smelled of herbs and candle smoke, and the sound of an old fan creaked above.
That child… was him.
His parents named him Arvin.
Only a few months earlier, before Arvin was born, his grandfather had passed away. The government job that once belonged to the old man was handed to his father's elder brother. His father, too, had once worked a government job — but laziness and carelessness cost him that post. He was dismissed quietly, without a fight.
From that day, respect, money, and pride gathered around the elder brother's side, leaving Arvin's parents standing quietly in the shadow of what could have been.
Arvin was born in his maternal grandmother's town — a small, poor rural place where time moved slowly and silence filled every corner. There were muddy roads, bamboo fences, green fields, and trees that whispered with the wind. His grandmother's house stood at the edge of the village — small, with cracked walls and a tin roof. Chickens walked freely in the yard, and the air always smelled like firewood and soil.
His mother endured her days there quietly, comforted only by her old mother, who had nothing but kindness to offer.
But after just two days, Arvin's father came again to take them back. His mother thought maybe things would change, maybe he had realized his mistake. She packed a small bag, carried baby Arvin in her arms, and went back to her husband's house.
For a short time, everything seemed fine. But peace never lasted long in that home.
The same cold looks, the same bitter words — they returned like shadows.
Her mother-in-law said nothing, his father stayed silent, and his elder brother's family looked at them with pride and distance.
Arvin's mother tried to stay calm. She cleaned, cooked, and kept quiet.
But deep inside, she knew this house would never accept them fully.
After some time, the fights started again. His father shouted over small things, blaming his wife for every problem. Arvin, still a baby, could only cry when voices got too loud.
Nine days after his birth, Arvin's father's elder brother's wife gave birth to a baby girl. From that moment, all attention shifted toward the new child — the beloved daughter of the uncle who now held the family's honor and position.
Arvin's arrival was quietly forgotten. His mother noticed it in the way people spoke, in how gifts came only for the other child, and how smiles faded when they looked at her son.
When Arvin was just six months old, everything changed again. One evening, his grandmother ordered them to leave the house. No one said a word in their defense. Not a single uncle stepped forward. His father, holding anger and shame inside, left with his wife and infant son without protest.
They moved to a small town nearby, renting a single cramped room with cracked walls and a tin roof that rattled every time the wind blew. His father found work in a private company, but the salary was barely enough to survive. His maternal grandmother often sent rice, some vegetables, or a few coins to help them get through the month.
Still, life was harsh. His parents began to argue more often — sometimes over money, sometimes over blame, sometimes over the silence that filled the room. The warmth of a home slowly turned into the chill of survival.
The fights never stopped. Even on good days, words turned into shouts, and shouts turned into tears. Arvin grew up watching it all, too young to understand but old enough to feel the pain.
One day, when Arvin was six years old, the fighting reached its end. His father, tired and angry, shouted and threw both Arvin and his mother out of the house. That night, they returned to his maternal grandmother's small home — the only place left for them.
The old woman welcomed them without a word. She simply opened the wooden door, gave them food, and spread an old blanket for the night. The house was small, surrounded by trees and silence. But there, Arvin finally felt a little warmth.
Days turned into months, and months into years.
Arvin grew up quietly in that house. He helped his grandmother in the fields, collected water from the well, and watched fireflies in the summer nights. He wasn't good at anything — not studies, not sports, not even talking to people. Yet, he tried.
Sometimes the other children teased him.
"Hey, Arvin, why are you always alone?"
"You'll never pass school."
He smiled weakly, pretending not to care, though the words stayed with him.
At night, when everyone slept, he would stare at the sky through the window — counting stars and thinking how big the world must be outside his village.
When he turned eighteen, his hard work finally paid off. He got a chance to study at a university in another town. For the first time, hope flickered in his heart. He left his grandmother's village with a small bag and a big dream, promising to return successful.
The bus journey was long. As the village disappeared behind the trees, he looked back one last time. His grandmother stood at the gate, waving, her eyes full of tears and pride.
---
City Life
When Arvin reached the city, everything felt strange. The streets were wide, filled with cars and lights. The air smelled like smoke and speed. The university was huge — tall buildings, busy hallways, students talking loudly about things he didn't understand.
He was nervous but excited. For the first time, he thought maybe life was changing.
But the world doesn't change that easily.
At the hostel, most students were from big cities — wearing expensive clothes, talking about gadgets, games, and foreign dreams. Arvin had none of that. He wore the same shirt for days, carried an old bag, and spoke softly.
Some ignored him. Others laughed.
One day in the cafeteria, a boy said loudly, "That's the village guy, right? Heard he still uses a keypad phone!"
Laughter followed. Arvin just smiled, sat alone, and ate quietly.
Still, he worked hard. He studied late at night under dim light, reading borrowed books. Sometimes he fell asleep at his desk, dreaming of home.
He liked to write in a small notebook — not stories, just thoughts. "Maybe," he once wrote, "writing can make a silent person louder."
But the world didn't see it that way.
"Hey, you write, huh?" one classmate teased. "I bet it's about your buffalo and fields."
Another added, "Nah, he doesn't write anything. Just pretends. He's good at daydreaming, that's all."
Arvin never argued. He knew talking wouldn't change anything. He just kept writing.
Then came his first exam. He studied harder than anyone — two nights without sleep, pages full of notes.
That morning, he felt confident. Maybe, finally, something good would happen.
He filled every answer carefully. The words flowed. His hand ached, but his heart was light. When he wrote the last line, a small smile appeared on his face.
And then — splash!
The bottle of water from the next desk rolled off and spilled across his paper. The ink spread like a dark wound.
"Sorry, man!" the student said, panicked.
But the bell rang. Time was up.
His answers turned to blur. His effort vanished like it was never there.
When the results came, he scored zero. The teacher didn't even look up.
Soon everyone knew.
"Hey, the village boy failed."
"Yeah, the loser who can't even keep water away from his paper!"
They laughed. The name stuck — Loser.
---
A week later, Arvin sat alone on a park bench. The sky was cloudy, the city lights flickering through the mist. He looked at his notebook — half filled, half empty.
Maybe that described him too.
"Loser," he whispered, the word sounding strange in his own voice.
He smiled faintly. "Maybe they're right. Maybe I really am."
The wind picked up, blowing through the trees. Rain started again — light, cold drops tapping against his face.
He stood up slowly, walking along the road near the park. The streetlights were dim, and cars passed by with shining reflections on the wet ground.
His thoughts were heavy — about his parents, his grandmother, all the things he never did right.
There was a sudden horn…
A flash of headlights…
Everything froze.
Raindrops hung in the air like glass.
His eyes widened, his hand reached out — but the light swallowed everything.
And then — silence.
The world faded to black.
---