My family and I moved to the city three weeks ago. We live in a house that was luckily found on sale. The house is on 22nd Street, a rather peaceful neighborhood. The place is really nice, except for the fact that a car accident happened there a year ago where someone died. The neighbors, as friendly as they are, raised awareness of road safety through petitions and more street signals.

The surroundings were dark. An ongoing pedestrian, an elderly woman hurrying back home, could see the darkened building of a house by the lonely street. There was only one source of light from one corner, shining like a star on a pitch black cosmos, with a dark shadow resembling the head of a person inside bending over to the source of light. The streets were eerily hushed, with a single car parked at the front of the block. The wind gushed through the leaves of trees, creating a wailing sound.

My parents were out of town for a conference. It was a Friday, hence I usually went out with them for dinner. Since that was not possible tonight, I took the opportunity to finish up some school assignments. The windows next to me were rattling from the constant gushing of wind outside. I went up to the windows and closed them. There was a lonely pedestrian skipping along the footwalk, carrying packets of groceries; probably had to go in for a late- night shopping trip to suffice her morning breakfast.

The elderly woman puffed as she carried her food for the next day in her hands. It was getting dark, and she had heard unfriendly gossips of spectres, roaming the streets. Of course, she did not believe in such unscientific notions. She was a research neuroscientist studying the effects on the brain after death at a nearby research facility. All her studies denied the existence of an afterlife. We are born, we live, we die, we decay, and we are erased. That was what she liked to chant during times like this.

I finally finished my homework and was about to go down to the dining hall, when I realised I already had dinner. I must have had during my homework. There were takeout boxes in the trash bin to prove that. God, I thought, I must be tired from work. Best to go to sleep soon. Much to do in the coming morning.

The woman’s sight fell on a young boy, limping on the street across from her. He was about the age of ten. He wore torn jeans and a white t-shirt with a red design. Why was he out at this time of the night? Some people are returning from late parties, drunk driving home. Does he want to end up like that young boy who died a year ago by being hit by that drunk driver? She faced back to call upon the boy, but was too late, for the boy was already out of sight.

I suddenly woke up to the sound of rattling. It was the main door. There was a sharp knock. Who could it have been? Not my parents. I jumped off my bed, still trying to hold onto the sleep that I was enjoying. The door rattled again. I went to the front door, switched the room light on and opened the door slowly. It was a young boy in torn jeans and white t-shirt with a red spot that almost seemed like blood. The boy looked at me with his pale grey eyes and opened his mouth to speak.

A young boy named Billy Anderson died recently. He suffered from severe somnambulism, a sleepwalking disorder, where he used to sleepwalk out of his house and later wake up in the middle of the streets. He could not make out his house, and many times he rattled on doors yelling to the neighbours, “I am lost, can you help me?” Alas, his yelling stopped after the 7th of August when he was fatally hit by a drunk driver. No one knew what happened to the driver after he was arrested.

“I am lost, can you help me?”