text: It was late afternoon, a young boy in shabby clothes, of around 12 to 13 years of age, was about to finish his last errands. He was a local delivery boy who worked for an old baker; whose shop resided right across a maternity hospital. The old baker's shop was unusual and famous for its insipid architecture; as old as it looked, it was astoundingly creepy, just like its owner. He was at least 6 feet tall; he had a pale complexion; and as the neighboring shopkeepers would complain, smelled like a corpse. Hassan, the old baker, had a taste for traditional settings; for example, his shoes were very un-modern; his attire very Kashmiri like; and to say the least, his beliefs, very anti-modern. The young would call him a "piece of antique" that no longer needed to be in the modern space but kept in a museum, locked in a coffin, as if he'd come alive from the dead. Museum, like an aesthetic jail for people like him; the crowd creeping inside the museum with little tip-tap steps, and awing at the plight of these people. They were called "The olds" because of their horrifying appearance, and not to mention their wild and angry disposition for the modern tastes, and of course, the fanatic abhorrence for the young. Hassan's delivery boy, Yousuf, was a unique case, however. He was a charming little child, unsuited for work, for his age. Nobody works at that young age. Yousuf was a slum child, and he knew three things: hunger, family, and work. Outside this sphere, the world did not exist, and this old master, would not let him free. He was, in fact, a slave boy, a modern-day slave boy. Yousuf was his leverage, his support; people would laud this kid for his compassion, for his master, but at the same time, were jealous of his existence. They perceived him a threat, for two reasons: the baker was doing fine, financially; his business was blooming. And the kid received many praises from him. It was late afternoon, Yousuf was returning to his master's shop, and in the midst of the snowy road, he had an epiphany that his master had died. He could not bear it, things around him went black all of sudden, eyes rose up over the horizon like the sun; his master's eyes. Stars gave up their radiance and morphed into little chunks of bread. In trepidation, he ran for the bridge, that hanging bridge that connected the heavens, near the hospital and said, "All is over, master" and jumped into the black river. The hospital windows were open and all the pregnant wives sang in harmony: "My child, death is only sweet when the blackness comes. My child, death is only sweet when the old man comes". The olds came and paid their homage to the child and wept; their tears froze in the snowy winter. Yousuf, my only child, was dead.