A Crayon Will

The hospital was half-ruined — dusty walls, cracked floors, and broken windows surrounded the place. Distant sounds of bombs and planes echoed through the air. A young boy lay in a small corner of the hospital. He had no one left — no family, no friends — only a ball. Every day, he held it close to his chest like a shield against the dangerous world.

His body was weak and thin. A wound on his leg from the last airstrike troubled him. The hospital had no medicines left. Everyone tried to stay hopeful, but it was hard.

Every morning, the doctor walked in for check-ups. He was a kind man with tired eyes but a warm smile. He examined the boy’s leg, looked into his eyes, and said, “You’ll get better soon. Don’t worry.”

He handed the boy a small cup of plain water poured from a syrup bottle. “Here, drink this medicine. It will help you feel strong,” he said. The boy drank it, believing the doctor’s words.

As the doctor was leaving, he noticed the ball. “Ah, your ball!” he said with a smile. “One day, we’ll play with it together.” The boy nodded, holding his ball a little tighter. For a moment, the room felt brighter.

The days were long. The boy often lay on his bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, holding his ball close. The doctor’s promise to play with him kept him smiling, even when the pain in his leg made him wince.

One hot afternoon, the boy woke up suddenly from a nightmare. His hand reached for his ball — his companion, but it was not there. His heart raced. He sat up quickly, searching under the blanket, beside his bed, everywhere he could reach — but the ball was gone.

His eyes scanned the room, and then he saw it. In the bed next to him, a little boy was playing with his ball. Beside the little boy sat his sister, about the same age as him. Her legs were wrapped in dirty bandages, and she looked tired. The little boy was gently bouncing the ball on the floor, a soft smile on his face.

“Hey…” the boy called out. His voice was shaky, a mix of anger and fear. The little boy froze, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. Slowly, he looked up, scared. The boy pointed to the ball with trembling fingers. “That’s my ball,” he said softly but firmly.

The little boy didn’t argue. He picked up the ball and, with slow, careful steps, walked over to the boy’s bed. Without saying a word, he placed the ball in the boy’s hand.

“Don’t touch my ball,” the boy said.

The little boy nodded, then quietly turned away and went back to sit beside his sister.

The boy felt relieved to have his ball back, but he couldn’t ignore the sadness in the little boy’s eyes. They were just like his own — tired, frightened, and alone.

The boy’s thoughts drifted back to the day his mother gave him the ball. He remembered walking through the market, holding her hand. With the threat of war looming, jobs were scarce, and they were struggling for money.

“Mom, ball?” he had asked, pointing to a bright, shiny ball in a stall. He already knew what she would say — she would say no. He braced himself to protest.

His mother shook her head gently. “Maybe another time,” she said.

He stopped walking, sat down right there in the middle of the road, and let the tears fall. “Leave me here! I won’t come with you!”

His mother sighed but didn’t leave him behind. She picked him up, cradled him in her arms, and carried him home, his cries echoing through the streets. Back at home, he sat alone, sulking, his face buried in his hands.

Determined, his mother began searching the house, looking for coins tucked away in drawers and under cushions. After gathering a small handful, she came to him and asked softly, “Are you coming?”

He was still angry and refused to go. She left without another word, but as time passed, the boy grew restless. He stepped outside, pacing up and down the street, waiting, hoping. And then he saw her — walking toward him, holding the ball in her hand.

He ran to her, his anger forgotten. He grabbed the ball, tossing it up and down, laughing as he ran circles around her.

The memory faded, leaving a deep longing in his heart and a tear rolling down his cheek. He felt a pang of guilt for making her go through all that trouble. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to the darkness.

In the middle of the night, the boy woke up gasping, another nightmare pulling him out of sleep. The room felt stifling, and his breaths came quick and shallow. He reached for his ball, holding it close, hoping it would calm him. But his is fingers touched only the blanket.

The ball was gone.

Panic surged through him like a wave. The ward was dark, only a faint glow of moonlight spilling through the shattered windows. He frantically searched his bed, tossing the thin sheet aside. His eyes darted to the nearby bed, where the little boy lay sleeping next to his sister.

“Hey!” he called out, his voice sharp and loud. But the little boy didn’t wake. He shouted again, louder, his desperation cutting through the stillness of the ward.

A few of the other patients stirred, annoyed murmurs filling the silence. But he didn’t care. He needed his ball back.

Desperate, the boy reached down, grabbing a small broken stone from the crumbling wall beside his bed. Without thinking, he hurled it at the little boy, and it struck his forehead. The little boy woke with a cry, clutching his head, eyes wide and terrified.

“Don’t act! Where is my ball?” the boy shouted, his voice cracking with fear. “Thief! Give me my ball back!”

The little boy sat up, confused and frightened, shaking his head as if trying to understand what was happening. He got to his feet, stumbling in the darkness. His small hands moved frantically, lifting blankets and groping under beds. The faint moonlight barely helped, and he struggled to see as he crawled on his knees between the cots of sleeping patients, his fingers brushing over the cold floor.

The boy’s anxiety grew with every second that passed. The fear gnawed at him — he couldn’t bear the thought of losing it forever. “Where did you hide the ball? Did you take it outside? Someone will steal it!” he cried out, his voice rising, frantic. “Give me my ball back! Thief!”

The boy’s voice trembled in the darkness of the ward. “They can’t even find missing people,” he whispered, his words barely audible. “Where will I go and search for my ball?” He paused, his breath catching in his throat. The reality of his situation began to sink in, and his next words came out in a choked sob. “My legs are also broken. How can I look for it?” The thought overwhelmed him, and he broke down completely. His cries echoed through the dark ward, growing louder with each passing moment. “I… I have no one else,” he wailed, his small body shaking with each sob. More patients stirred in their beds, awakened by the boy’s distress. His grief consumed him entirely. In that moment, the missing ball seemed to represent everything he had lost — his home, his family, his ability to move freely. It was all gone, just like his beloved ball.

The little boy’s sister stirred awake from the commotion, rubbing her eyes as she tried to adjust to the darkness of the ward. She squinted, searching for her brother’s ball, but everything was just shadows and shapes.

Then, a faint flash flickered outside, barely brightening the room. A missile had struck far away, just close enough to send a ripple of light through the darkness.

In that fleeting moment of light, the sister’s eyes spotted the ball, half-hidden beneath the cot of an old man across the room. She nudged her brother urgently, pointing toward it. Seconds later, a dull, distant boom echoed through the walls.

The little boy quickly crawled over, reaching under the cot. He grasped the ball, then walked back slowly, holding it out to the boy with trembling hands, his eyes fixed on the ground.

The boy snatched the ball roughly from the little boy’s hands and curled up on his bed, clutching it tightly to his chest. He kissed it, feeling the familiar smoothness against his skin. It felt like finding a lost pet.

The little boy returned to his sister, curling up beside her like a frightened puppy. The ward settled back into a tense quiet, the heavy breathing of sleeping patients the only sound.

The boy sat on his bed, gripping his ball, feeling his anger slowly slip away, leaving behind a heavy emptiness. He glanced at the little boy, who lay with his back to him, holding his sister’s hand for comfort. Guilt washed over him, settling like a stone in his chest. The little boy didn’t deserve this.

The next morning, he woke up late. He glanced at the bed beside him. Instead of the little boy and his sister, there was a middle-aged lady sleeping with her back turned. No goodbyes, no last look — just strangers where they used to be. He reached for his ball, holding it close as he stared at the bed, now so different.

Soon, the doctor walked in, attempting a smile. He examined the boy’s wound — it was red, hot, and starting to rot. The boy’s eyes followed every movement, searching the doctor’s face for some sign of hope. But the doctor, who had seen thousands die, couldn’t hide his tears as he watched a child’s leg rotting under his care.

“It hurts,” the boy whispered.

“I know,” the doctor replied gently.

“Not just the leg.” The boy touched his stomach, moved his hand to his chest, then his throat, and finally pointed to his head. The doctor realized the infection was spreading — too quickly. It was preventable, even curable, but there was no medicine.

“Here,” the doctor said, handing him a cup of plain water from an old syrup bottle, forcing a smile. “Drink this.”

The boy took the cup and sipped slowly. He hugged his ball to his chest, eyes fixed on the empty bed where the little boy used to sleep.

The doctor placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, trying to keep his voice light. “You’ll be better soon. The medicine will come any day now… And then we’ll play with the ball.”

The boy nodded but stayed silent, staring at the bed where the little boy and his sister used to sleep. He wondered why he never played with them.

He remembered how the little boy would hold onto the ball when handing it back, holding it just a moment longer. Why hadn’t he let him keep it for a bit longer?

Now, he felt a deep regret, knowing he’d never see them again.

The doctor sat in a small corner of the hospital, surrounded by scattered papers and lists. The medical supply was supposed to arrive yesterday, but now the sun was setting, and the entrance to the hospital remained empty.

Frustration clawed at his chest. He couldn’t wait any longer. With a heavy sigh, he grabbed his cycle and rode toward the main medical center, 7 kilometers away, hoping to find the vital medicines they needed. As he pedaled through the ruined streets, dust clouded the air, and distant echoes of explosions followed him like shadows. He kept riding, pushing against the weight of exhaustion and helplessness.

At the medical center, hope gave way to despair. Their shelves were empty.

“What happened?” the doctor asked, his voice barely a whisper.

The old man shook his head, eyes downcast. “An airstrike hit the supply trucks,” he said softly. “All the medicine was destroyed. We’ll have to wait… maybe next week.”

“Why do they keep attacking medical supplies?” the doctor asked, his voice trembling.

The old man remained silent.

With a heavy heart and empty hands, the doctor returned to the hospital.

That night, the hospital buzzed with fear. A warning came — another airstrike was heading their way. The doctor stayed the night in the hospital. All lights were off; everyone was silent, waiting.

Soon, the roar of missiles began. Explosions lit up the sky, shaking the walls. The boy gripped his ball tightly against his chest, squeezing his eyes shut. The sounds outside were loud, deafening, but to the boy, they slowly faded away. His body felt heavy and numb, and he sank into his dreams.

In his dream, he was back in his old home, sitting around a table with his mother, father, and siblings. The familiar spices of dinner filled the air — soft rice, warm bread, fresh curry. Laughter echoed through the room. His mother smiled, her eyes shining like they used to. His father’s gentle hand ruffled his hair. His elder brother and sister joked as they passed food to each other. It was pure joy, full of love and safety.

He reached out to touch his mother’s hand, but suddenly, the dining table began to shake. The rumble of bombs grew louder, the missiles hitting the hospital in real life.

He didn’t want to wake up. He shut his ears and shouted, “Mom!”

The whole house trembled, but his family didn’t seem to notice. The noise was too loud, shaking everything around him. Then, his mother opened her arms, smiling softly. “Come here,” she said.

The boy ran to her and hugged her tightly. She held him close, rocking him slowly, and began to sing a familiar lullaby. Gradually, the sounds of the bombs faded away. The melody of his mother’s voice brought him peace.

The war, the explosions, the shaking, the pain — all of it disappeared.

The hospital survived the night. The next morning, the doctor prepared for his rounds. He poured plain water into the syrup bottle and walked through the ward, offering sips and gentle words.

As he approached the boy’s bed, an old man from a nearby cot murmured softly, “Doctor, I think the boy is gone.”

The doctor turned to see the boy, lying so still hugging his favorite ball, as if simply asleep. His heart clenched. Kneeling beside the bed, he touched the boy’s hand — cold and stiff. He placed his fingers on the boy’s neck, searching for a pulse.

There was none.

The ward fell into a deeper silence. A sadness hung in the air, heavy and unmoving.

As they began to tend to the boy’s body, a nurse found a small folded piece of paper in the boy’s shirt pocket. She carefully unfolded it, and her eyes softened as she read. She handed it to the doctor.

The note, written in wobbly letters with the crayon the doctor had given him when he first arrived with a non-fatal injury, read:

“Please give my ball to the boy in bed next to me last week with his sister. To the boy: I’m sorry I wasn’t nice. Please play with my ball. Take care of it.”

The words echoed through the room, a final message from one child to another.

It took a few weeks, but the doctor eventually found the little boy and his sister. They were staying in a crowded shelter nearby. The doctor sat with them, the ball and note in his hands. The little boy stared at the doctor’s face, then at the ball.

“This was from your friend at the hospital,” the doctor said gently. He handed the ball to the little boy, who took it with trembling hands. The little boy looked down at the familiar, worn ball, holding it close.

“He wanted you to have it,” the doctor continued, handing over the note.

The sister read the message silently. Her lips pressed together as she fought back tears. She looked at her brother, then back at the doctor. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Don’t you want to play with it?” the doctor asked the little boy.

“He will, after you leave. He’s a bit shy,” the sister said with a small smile. The little boy cuddled his sister, holding the ball.

As the doctor walked away, he glanced back one last time. The little boy had started to play with it alongside his sister. They bounced it gently between them, small smiles appearing on their faces despite everything around them.