Rain fell over Karachi like a secret no one wanted to tell. The streets were empty, except for one boy sitting beneath the last working streetlight on the corner of Landhi Road. His name was Umair. A notebook rested on his knees, its pages soaked but his handwriting steady. Every night he came here — same light, same rain, same dream. He wrote songs about a future he hadn’t seen yet. A future where people listened, where his words mattered. Across the street, an old man sold tea under a blue umbrella. He’d often call out, “Beta, you’ll catch a cold.” Umair would just smile and reply, “Maybe then my voice will sound deeper.” Tonight was different though. The notebook was full — every page a piece of his struggle, his laughter, his heartbreak. He closed it, looked up, and saw his reflection trembling in a puddle. A rickshaw passed, its headlights cutting through the rain. Umair stood up, tucked the notebook under his arm, and whispered, “Bas ab, next time I sit here, I won’t be unknown.” He walked away — the rain still falling, the streetlight flickering — as if the city itself knew a story was about to begin.