Tale#33: Once Upon A Time: Episode-1:The Boy Who Never Speak |Saturday
Behind every face is a story you haven’t read yet
It was one of those perfect afternoons—warm sun, soft breeze, the kind that made the trees whisper secrets and the grass feel like a blanket beneath your feet. The neighborhood park buzzed with the usual energy of children laughing, birds chirping, and parents chatting over coffee cups.
Zayn, an energetic 8-year-old with bright eyes and an even brighter smile, was deep into a soccer game with himself. His ball danced across the green field, bouncing off trees, skimming past benches, and occasionally landing near his sister, Sara, who giggled every time she was “accidentally” tackled by her little brother’s ball.
On a nearby bench, Aymen—Zayn and Sara’s mom—sat under the shade of a large oak tree. A book rested on her lap, though her eyes often drifted up to watch her children play. She smiled, half-reading, half-listening, as Zayn roared, “GOOOOAAAL!” and fell theatrically to the ground.
The next kick, however, was stronger than expected. The ball zoomed across the park and rolled to a stop near the feet of a boy sitting alone on a bench. Zayn paused, brushed off his shorts, and jogged over to retrieve it.
The boy didn’t move.
“Assalamu Alaikum!” Zayn said cheerfully. “Would you like to join me in football?”
No answer.
The boy just stared straight ahead, his face completely blank. No nod. No shake of the head. Nothing.
Zayn blinked in confusion and stepped a little closer. “Hey! I said Salam. Can you hear me?”
Still nothing. The boy stood up slowly, turned, and walked away—leaving the ball exactly where it was.
Zayn’s face flushed with irritation. He picked up his ball and stormed back to where his mom sat, the fun drained from his game.
“Mama!” he huffed. “That boy over there is so rude! I said Salam, and he didn’t even look at me. I asked him to play with me and he just walked away like I wasn’t even there!”
Aymen looked up, her expression calm and curious.
“Hmm,” she said thoughtfully. “That doesn’t sound very strange. But sometimes, sweetheart, people are in a different phase of mind. Maybe he didn’t hear you, or maybe something else was going on.”
Zayn crossed his arms. “No, Mama. He saw me. I know he saw me.”
“Even then,” she said gently, “let’s not jump to conclusions. We never know what someone else is carrying inside.”
Zayn rolled his eyes. “He just thinks he’s too cool to talk to anyone.”
Aymen raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further.
Later that day, as the golden hour painted the park in honeyed light, Zayn decided to take a few laps on his bike. The cool wind in his face helped him forget the “rude” boy and his silent stare.
But as he rounded the corner near the bike track, Zayn spotted the same boy again—this time standing under a tree, unmoving, staring at the branches above.
Zayn slowed down. Maybe this was a chance to give it another try.
He smiled and waved. “Assalamu Alaikum!” he called out again.
The boy didn’t react.
Zayn stopped pedaling.
Still no movement. Not even a glance.
Now Zayn was really annoyed.
He muttered under his breath, “Why does he keep acting like I’m invisible? Is he trying to be mean?”
Frustrated, Zayn turned around and rode off, mumbling things like “rude” and “arrogant” all the way back to the bench where Aymen and Sara were packing up for home.
They began walking toward the park exit, the sky now streaked with the first hints of twilight. That’s when it happened.
A loud crash. A gasp. Screams.
Zayn turned sharply. Someone had fallen.
The same boy.
He was lying on the pavement beside his bicycle, his leg scratched, his elbow bleeding slightly. A few adults stood around awkwardly, not sure how to help.
Without hesitation, Aymen rushed over and knelt beside him.
“It’s okay,” she said softly. “You're safe now.”
She pulled tissues from her bag and gently wiped the dust and blood from his arm. Zayn and Sara stood close, watching.
Then a woman came running toward them, her face pale and worried.
“Thank you! Thank you for helping him,” she said, panting. “He’s my nephew. I only turned for a moment…”
Aymen nodded with a warm smile. “He’s okay. Just shaken up.”
The woman turned to Zayn, who stood silently, eyes locked on the boy.
“My dear,” she said gently, “he… he can’t speak. Or hear. Or see properly.”
Zayn’s eyes widened.
“He tries hard to do things like other kids, but people don’t always understand. He’s not being rude… he just doesn’t know when people are speaking to him.”
The words hit Zayn like a wave.
All this time, he had thought the boy was ignoring him on purpose. But now it made sense—the blank stares, the silence, the walking away.
He wasn’t rude.
He was trying to exist in a world that didn’t see him fully.
Later that night, back home, Zayn lay in bed with the blanket pulled to his chin. Aymen came in to tuck him in, as she always did.
“Mama…” Zayn whispered, his voice small. “I thought he was being mean. But… he wasn’t.”
Aymen brushed his hair back from his forehead. “That’s why we always give people the benefit of the doubt,” she said gently. “We never really know their full story until we listen with our hearts.”
Zayn nodded slowly. “Can we go back to the park tomorrow? I want to sit with him. Even if he doesn’t talk. I just… want to be kind.”
Aymen smiled. “That’s the most beautiful reason.”
The next afternoon, Zayn didn’t run or ride his bike. Instead, he walked slowly toward the same bench. The boy was there again, sitting silently.
Zayn sat beside him, opened his backpack, and pulled out two juice boxes.
He placed one gently near the boy’s hand and sat quietly beside him, sipping his own juice.
No words were spoken.
No reply was needed.
Just presence.
Just kindness.
And in that quiet, Zayn realized something: some of the strongest friendships start not with words, but with understanding.