Those fools, they knew nothing.

That young man in his twenties, who had just reached adulthood, was surrounded by pressures from every side.

He had often heard the phrase: “One doesn’t need to be rich to be happy.” Many said it, unaware that there are those who go to sleep hungry, or cry from exhaustion, unable to forget the weight of their reality.

For him, money was the very foundation he built his escape upon—his escape from that family who had given him nothing.

Now he sat in a small café with cracked walls, watching the passersby in their fine clothes and colorful coats.

He saw them as selfish, and wished for the day everything would collapse on their heads, leaving them with nothing to eat.

He remembered himself—his body covered in bruises from the endless beatings of his father, the drunkard who wasted what little money they had on alcohol, forgetting he had three children in need of food and the bare essentials of life.

He shook off those thoughts and looked at his reflection in the café window.

He wore an old jacket over a thin shirt that barely kept him warm, and shoes stolen from his father, a size too big.

No socks. The cold pierced his feet. Snowflakes fell on him as he left the café, head lowered, walking among the people, searching for himself.

⸻

He stepped inside the building, but the receptionist stopped him, saying:

“Shake yourself off before you come in!”

He felt a pang of embarrassment, stepped back, brushed the snow from his clothes, wiped his shoes, and entered. He headed toward the desk to collect the key to the abandoned room he lived in alone—everyone else had left to spend the winter break abroad. Some went to New York, others to Holland, and others scattered to different places.

The receptionist looked at him and asked:

“Why didn’t you leave for your break?”

Bassem ran his hand through his long hair, uncut for a year, now covering his ears, then replied:

“Honestly, I have nowhere to go. No one’s waiting for me.”

She paused for a moment, then said in a low voice, with no real concern:

“Fine, do as you wish.”

He took the key from her hand without another word and climbed the stairs slowly. His steps were heavy, their echoes repeating down the empty hallway. Everything was still. White, cold walls. A faded carpet worn thin from overuse. He reached his room, slid the key into the lock, and turned it with difficulty—as if the door hadn’t been opened in ages.

Inside, he tossed his small bag into the corner and sat on the bed with its thin, sagging mattress. From his pocket he pulled out an old book, its pages yellowed, its letters faded. He didn’t read it for pleasure—he opened it sometimes just to feel there was something constant in his life, something that didn’t change. He ran his fingers across the words, but his eyes stayed fixed on the window.

Snow fell quietly outside, covering sidewalks and parked cars. Everything seemed distant, as though he were staring into another world, one that had nothing to do with him.

He remembered his father’s words: “You’ll never succeed in anything.” That voice echoed inside him like a curse. He laughed bitterly, shut the book, and set it aside.

He stood, took off his wet jacket, and hung it near the small heater that barely worked. The cold filled the room, creeping in through the cracks of the windows and under the door. He sat on the floor, leaning his back against the wall, pulled his knees to his chest, and closed his eyes. He wasn’t waiting for sleep—just a moment of emptiness, a brief escape from the noise of his thoughts.

Minutes dragged on. Then he heard sounds in the corridor—scattered laughter, quick footsteps. He remembered that some students had delayed their travels, or perhaps someone had returned to collect something they’d forgotten. He didn’t step out to check. He had no desire to face anyone. He knew, simply, that no one would notice him.

He reached into his bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was an old letter he had written to himself two years ago, trying to convince himself that tomorrow would be better. He read the lines quickly, then tore the paper into small pieces and let them fall to the floor.

“It’s useless,” he muttered.

He returned to the window. The street was nearly empty, except for a few people hurrying along to escape the cold. He felt that each of them had a purpose, a destination, someone waiting for them.

But he—he was nothing but a shadow, moving without direction.

Still, he didn’t cry. His tears had dried long ago. He only sighed, then stretched out on the bed without changing his clothes. His eyes fixed on the ceiling as darkness crept in.

The room was cold. The night was long.

But inside him, there was nothing but a heavy emptiness, one that would not go away.

And quietly, he closed his eyes.

No dream awaited him—only the continuation of another day exactly like the one before.