الصوت المشترك

Everyone laughed at him. The torn shoes… the quiet voice… the empty lunchbox. No one took him seriously. No one believed in him. He was just a poor boy with big dreams… and in their eyes, that was a joke. He lived in a small room with no electricity. At night, while others slept comfortably, he sat under a streetlight reading his books, fighting sleep, fighting hunger, fighting doubt. People would pass by and shake their heads. “What’s the point?” they’d say. “People like him don’t make it.”