Once upon a time, nestled beneath golden hills and cradled by winding rivers, there existed a land so enchanting that even the clouds seemed to slow their passage to admire its beauty. This land was called Akop Ekebusen a name that rolled off the tongue like a hymn. Its terrain was a masterpiece: rolling green meadows brushed against the sky, jagged cliffs stood like ancient sentinels, and the air was laced with the scent of wild jasmine and fresh earth.
Akop Ekebusen was not only a land of splendor, but also of soul. Its people walked with kindness in their eyes and hospitality in their veins. Here, democracy wasn’t a word tossed in political speeches it was a living pulse, beating in every heart. Leadership rotated like the seasons, and every citizen, from the village elder to the barefoot shepherd boy, was seen as a potential steward of the land.
Among these noble people lived a small, joyful family of three a father with hands toughened by labor, a mother whose laughter could light up the dusk, and their only son, born in August of 2013. He was a bright-eyed boy, full of wonder and untamed curiosity, always asking about the stars and why birds never got lost in the sky.
But fate, cruel and silent, had its own design.
In the year 2022, on what was supposed to be a simple trip to the fabled Paradise City, the boy’s parents kissed his forehead for the last time. Somewhere along the winding highway, a tragic accident snatched their lives in an instant. The land mourned, but not as deeply as the small boy who now stood barefoot at the edge of his world, orphaned and adrift. His parents had gone to a place the elders called Heaven a beautiful and unimaginable realm but they had left behind a child with eyes too young to carry such sorrow.
At first, the neighbors took him in people who once embraced the values of Akop Ekebusen. But with time, the warmth faded. What was once a cradle of compassion became a cold house of neglect. The boy was no longer a child to be cherished but a burden to be endured.
As the seasons passed, so too did the spirit of Akop Ekebusen. Where once the laughter of children echoed through fertile valleys, now gunshots cracked through the silence gazelles and dik-diks hunted not for food but for pleasure, their blood staining the earth that once nurtured them. The forests that used to whisper lullabies now groaned under the weight of greed and silence.
Democracy, once the crown jewel of Akop Ekebusen, vanished like morning mist. To speak freely that was to invite danger. Even whispers were weighed with fear. To talk of freedom was like dreaming of rivers in the heart of the Sahara an illusion dancing on the heatwaves.
And the boy he no longer grew.
Not in stature, not in spirit. It was as if time itself had conspired to trap him in that moment of loss. His body remained ten, but his soul aged with every neglected meal, every cruel word, every night he cried into the silence that used to be filled with love.
One cannot help but imagine his parents looking down from their celestial home, whispering to the wind:
“Why did we leave so soon?”
They had dreams. Dreams of education, of joy, of a life rich in promise for their son. But now, he stood as a symbol of what Akop Ekebusen had lost a boy frozen in time, in a land that had forgotten its own heart.
And yet, somewhere in that boy’s chest, beneath the scars and silence, a small ember still glowed. The spirit of Akop Ekebusen may be buried, but it was not dead. The day may yet come when the orphan rises, not just as a memory of a better past but as the one who will restore the soul of a land once called home.
