The forgotten ones—those who do not have a home, a family, or a name that anyone remembers—exist in some eerie corners of the city, which never sleeps. Baba Rafi, an elderly man, was among them. He had been on the streets for as long as anyone could recall, his rags barely shielding him from the cold, his whispery voice speaking only to himself.
Teenagers dare each other to spend an hour under the abandoned overpass where Baba Rafi lived one wet night. They laughed, "It’s just an old beggar." But as they stepped into his territory, they found him sitting against the wall, staring blankly at nothing. They were unable to hear the words emerging from his lips. "Why do you sit here, old man?" Kicking a stray can toward him, one of them asked. Baba Rafi slowly raised his head to look. "I am waiting."
"What exactly?" Another teen grumbled. "For the ones who whisper in the dark… They come when the rain falls."
The group exchanged nervous glances. Just then, the wind howled, carrying a sound like faint whispers. It wasn’t coming from Baba Rafi—it was coming from the walls, from the ground, from the very air around them.
One of the teenagers shined a flashlight around. Unnaturally long and twisted shadows danced. The whispers turned into soft giggles, then cries, then screams.
"The forgotten ones," Baba Rafi murmured. "They are hungry."
One of the teens was dragged into the night and screamed. Another person attempted to run, but he ended up frozen, his feet sinking like quicksand into the damp pavement. The last boy turned to Baba Rafi, eyes pleading.
"You shouldn’t have come here," Baba Rafi whispered. "This is theirs, not just my house." The rain poured harder, washing away their screams. The next morning, the overpass was empty. No bodies, no signs of struggle. Just Baba Rafi, sitting in his usual spot, whispering to the ones no one could see.
And in the distant echoes of the wind, the city wept for the ones it had fo
