I n the dullness of pre-dawn, one man crept through shadows, avoiding the main road. His body exuded a foul smell.
Even at this hour of day he was wary of bumping into anyone, lest they got suspicious, complicating matters. He had learned from the very beginning about the fickle nature of people. They never understood him growing up. And they weren’t about to understand his actions now. But he was so far and beyond what people thought anymore. He had a job to do. Somebody had to do it.

Tracing his steps through alleyways to his home, he felt satisfied. He had done what he wanted to. Now he needed to rest.

People hear stories all the time. In fact, they hear so many stories that they decide to forget some of them and make room for newer, more interesting ones. After his death, Mustafa Zaidi haunted his acquaintances, friends, relatives and neighbors with his story.

Even his classmates at school, a bunch of energetic and rowdy boys, became somber and grave. The teachers also found it difficult to concentrate on the syllabus, starkly affected by Mustafa’s fate. Nevertheless, after a week passed by, slowly but inevitably, things began to fall back into place.
And, within a short period of time, the world forgot about the boy. Newspapers now screamed other headlines. Public concern shifted from safety in the neighborhood to the loud music blaring at night. Children started playing on the street again. While Mustafa’s family was left behind to grieve at their son’s gruesome ending, the whole world moved on to newer, more interesting stories.

Except one man. Just when things were dying down, he decided to stir them up again.