EVEN WHEN IT HURTS - Story by Dr. Amrinder Pal Singh

 EVEN WHEN IT HURTS - “Kindness is not what you give—it’s what you keep giving.”

 Story by Dr. Amrinder Pal Singh - Chief Editor & CEO, DXB News Network

 

---

Place - WELSH COUNTRYSIDE.

The golden sun spreads slowly across the vast Welsh countryside, bathing the rolling green hills in a soft amber glow. Morning mist glides like whispers over the earth, clinging gently to tall grass and low stone fences. Birds begin their gentle chorus, breaking the silence with notes of life.

A modest stone cottage sits alone, nestled among the hills like a memory. Its chimney smokes faintly, a sign of warmth inside. The air is cold, crisp, and alive.

Near the edge of a field, a young boy of nine, ELIAN CARTER, kneels on the frost-covered ground. His small hands are wrapped tightly around a bunch of wildflowers, half-frozen, their petals trembling in the breeze. He places them at the base of two wooden crosses—his parents’ graves. The names are carved by hand, rough yet loving.

Behind him, a figure slowly approaches—NAN EVANS, his grandmother. Her silver hair is braided loosely, her eyes strong, her hands weathered by work and wisdom. She carries a thick woolen shawl.

She kneels beside him, says nothing at first. Her hands gently rest on his shoulders. She wraps the shawl around him.

NAN (softly, almost a whisper) Remember, bachgen... even when the world is cold, we must stay warm.

Elian nods silently, eyes full of something too deep for his age. Grief. Yes. But also… understanding. The seed of something more.

They stay there together, two quiet silhouettes beneath the morning sun, as the world continues to turn.

---

At Elian’s COTTAGE - LATER THAT MORNING

The inside of the cottage is humble but full of life. Cast iron stove flickers with fresh firewood. A teapot hisses gently. Dried herbs hang over the kitchen window. Photographs in wooden frames sit on the mantel—young parents smiling, Elian as a toddler with cake smeared on his face.

Nan pours tea into mismatched mugs. Elian sits at the table, legs swinging under the chair. There’s silence, but not emptiness. The kind of silence that carries memory.

Nan brings over a tin box. She sets it down in front of him.

NAN - Your father started this when he was your age. It’s your turn now.

Elian opens it. Inside—nuts, bolts, wires, old tools. A small screwdriver worn at the handle. His eyes light up.

NAN - If your hands stay busy, your heart stays full.

Elian nods, a soft smile breaking through. He picks up a coil of copper wire and stares at it with wonder—as if he already sees something it can become.

AFTERNOON - Elian walks the narrow dirt path into the village, the tin box clutched in his small hands. His boots are a bit too big. His face wears both quiet determination and the innocence of a boy who hasn’t yet seen the worst of the world. He passes an old man, MR. DUFFY, sitting beside a broken radio. The man squints at it helplessly, muttering to himself.

MR. DUFFY - Damn thing hasn’t worked since the frost.

Elian pauses. Looks at the radio. Looks at the tin box. He kneels beside it.

ELIAN - May I try, sir?

Mr. Duffy eyes him, unsure. Then nods.

Elian opens the box. Gently removes the back panel. His fingers move slowly, unsure but precise. He adjusts a spring, replaces a wire, uses the tiny screwdriver to tighten a screw. A soft crackle. Then music. A violin playing from the small speaker. Mr. Duffy’s eyes widen. His voice cracks.

MR. DUFFY - My wife loved this piece… she used to play it every Sunday morning.

Elian smiles quietly, stands, and begins to walk on. Mr. Duffy stops him.

MR. DUFFY - Boy... what's your name?

ELIAN - Elian Carter, sir.

Mr. Duffy nods, deeply moved. He watches the boy walk away, a little sun now breaking through the clouds. From his porch, he whispers:

MR. DUFFY (CONT’D) - That’s a good lad. That’s a good, good lad.

---

NEXT DAY- VILLAGE SCHOOLHOUSE - A simple one-room classroom. Wooden desks worn smooth by generations. A chalkboard scrawled with sums. A broken clock ticks unevenly above. Elian sits quietly in the back, hands folded. He watches other children laughing, chasing one another in the schoolyard through the open window. His teacher, MISS LEARY, notices his silence.

MISS LEARY - Elian, would you like to help me fix this old shelf after class?

He nods. After the bell, while others run off, Elian stays. He opens his box again—his father’s box—and begins tightening bolts, straightening hinges. Miss Leary kneels beside him.

MISS LEARY - Your Nan told me you fixed Mr. Duffy’s radio. He hasn’t smiled like that in years.

Elian shrugs, shy.

MISS LEARY - What do you want to be when you grow up?

He pauses.

ELIAN - Kind.

She blinks, a lump rising in her throat. Then smiles.

MISS LEARY - That’s the best thing you could ever be.

She places a hand gently on his shoulder.

Outside, the sky glows with the first hint of twilight. The classroom is quiet. But something eternal lingers in the air.

Kindness. The kind that plants seeds.

---

EARLY MORNING - VILLAGE SQUARE - A light fog hangs in the air. The village is just waking up. Shops open their shutters, the baker stokes his oven, and distant roosters cry into the morning.

Elian walks past with a small wooden cart he’s built himself—its wheels slightly uneven but working. Inside are pieces of broken toys, old door hinges, wires, cloth patches—items most people would throw away.

He stops outside a small, weathered home. A little boy, OLIVER, no older than six, sits on the steps, tears streaking his cheeks. His toy truck lies beside him, broken clean in half. Elian kneels down.

ELIAN - Did something happen? Oliver sniffles.

OLIVER - It broke. It was the last thing my dad gave me.

Elian doesn’t speak. He just gently lifts the truck and studies it. He reaches into his cart and begins working, slowly, carefully—his hands sure, his expression calm. Children gather. One holds her breath. Another kneels beside him. After a few minutes, Elian clicks the final piece in place. The truck, slightly crooked but whole, rolls again. Oliver’s eyes shine.

OLIVER - It’s... fixed?

ELIAN - Better. It has a story now.

He hands it back. Oliver clutches it like a treasure. From a nearby window, Oliver’s mother watches—eyes moist, heart full. She doesn’t interrupt. Just places her hand to her chest in quiet gratitude. As Elian stands, another child steps forward with a broken music box. He smiles and gestures to his cart.

ELIAN (CONT’D) - Let’s see what we can do.

And so begins a quiet line of children—and a new morning tradition.

---

ONE WEEK LATER - VILLAGE CHURCH - A soft hymn echoes gently through the small stone church. Candles flicker on the altar. Wooden pews are filled with villagers, gathered not for a service—but for something more intimate.

Elian stands near the back, quietly helping Mr. Duffy adjust a small radio set near the choir. Children sit cross-legged on the floor, holding their newly repaired treasures.

Father Harlan, the elderly priest, clears his throat at the pulpit. His voice is low, thoughtful.

FATHER HARLAN - This week, something curious has happened. Every morning, without fail, children queue outside my window—not for food or sermon—but for a boy with a cart full of broken things.

The congregation chuckles softly. Elian lowers his gaze, modest.

FATHER HARLAN (CONT'D) - That boy is teaching us all something. That even the broken things in life—when held with care—can become whole again.

He looks over to Elian. Their eyes meet.

FATHER HARLAN (CONT'D) - Sometimes, God sends us miracles not wrapped in lightning, but in quiet hands and soft voices.

Murmurs of agreement ripple through the church. Elian offers a shy smile. He turns to help an elderly woman light a candle, holding her trembling hand steady. In that moment, the church—this small corner of the world—feels warmer, softer. Hope has found a home.

---

NIGHT- Elian’s COTTAGE - The fire crackles low. Shadows flicker against stone walls. Elian, now a teenager, nearly sixteen, sits beside Nan Evans, who lies in bed, frail but smiling. Her breathing is shallow, her hands weaker. Still, her spirit shines.

Outside, the wind howls gently through the cracks in the cottage walls. Inside, it's warm, dimly lit, full of unspoken emotion.

NAN - You’ve grown into something your father would have been proud of, Elian. Promise me… you’ll never stop giving, even when it hurts.

Elian holds her hand tightly, as though he could anchor her to this world just by not letting go.

ELIAN - I promise.

She touches his cheek, eyes brimming with tears and peace all at once. Her last smile stretches across her wrinkled face. Then, quietly, like a candle flickering out, she closes her eyes. Elian doesn’t cry—not then. He just sits there, frozen in time, holding her hand long after the warmth fades. The sound of the fire dims. Silence fills the room. Outside, snow begins to fall softly, covering the hills in white.

---

FUNERAL DAY - AFTERNOON - A small gathering. A simple service. The wind whispers through bare branches. A few villagers stand silently around Nan Evans’ grave—out of habit, more than heart. Elian stands apart from them. Alone. A single flower in his hand. He lays it down, but lingers. He watches as the others begin to leave, quickly, quietly—as if returning to something more important. No one places a hand on his shoulder. No one meets his eyes. Not even the priest.

His world, once wrapped in Nan’s warmth, now feels unbearably hollow. Elian looks around—not for comfort, but for confirmation: he’s truly alone. 

NAN (V.O.) (softly, from memory) Even when the world is cold, we must stay warm.

But her voice is a memory now, not presence. The world without her… is not the same. Elian turns his back to the grave, and walks away. Not with anger, not with tears—but with the ache of a boy who just became a man too soon.

---

AFTER SOME DAYS - VILLAGE WELL - There was noise. A crowd had gathered. Voices rose, hands gestured, faces turned restless under the morning sun. Elian, returning from the far side of the village, saw the commotion and hurried toward it. As soon as he stepped into the circle of villagers, someone pointed.

MAN - Elian… it wasn’t you, was it?

Before he could answer, another voice interrupted.

CARPENTER - My silver chisel went missing right after he came to fix my window last week!

WOMAN - He helped me with firewood—and that same night, my mother’s old comb vanished!

FARMER - Didn’t he fetch water for your wife the day her jewelry box key was lost?

Murmurs turned to confirmation. Nods became accusations. Each one linking Elian’s quiet presence to some small, forgotten loss. He looked around—the very people who once offered him tea and a place to sit now took a step back.

OLD WOMAN - He’s always around when no one else is. Too helpful, too quiet.

Elian opened his mouth, but nothing came out. How could he explain? That he had reasons to stay silent? That speaking would hurt someone he respected deeply? That protecting others was sometimes heavier than defending oneself?

But silence has a price. And on that day, it cost him their trust. One by one, the doors that were once open to him... quietly closed.

---

SOME OTHERDAY - Elian offers to help lift bags for an elderly woman. She declines, coldly.

WOMAN - Don’t need your pity, boy.

The shopkeeper watches him with narrowed eyes.

SHOPKEEPER - Not your place anymore.

Elian says nothing. Just lowers his eyes and leaves.

The boy who healed their toys, warmed their hearts—was now invisible.

WOODED PATH - EVENING

Elian walks home alone, his hands in his pockets, head low. The path that once felt familiar now seems to whisper things behind his back. Trees sway under a wind that feels less like a breeze and more like judgment.

A group of children see him from afar. They stop playing. One clutches his toy and backs away. A mother quietly calls her child inside. Doors close. Curtains shift.

Elian doesn’t flinch. But inside, something small and innocent begins to crumble.

---

ELIAN’S COTTAGE - NIGHT

The cottage feels colder now, emptier. Elian lights a lantern and opens Nan’s old journal—her words in fading ink.

NAN VOICE - “Even when they turn their backs, keep your hands open. One day, they’ll remember.”

Elian reads the words over and over until his eyes blur. He holds the book to his chest and falls asleep at the table.

DAYS PASS

– Elian walking alone, villagers avoiding his eyes.
– Trying to offer help, only to be turned away.
– Sitting silently at the edge of the forest, talking to Nan’s grave.

His smile fades. The spark in his eyes dims. Slowly, quietly—Elian falls into silence.

---

ELIAN’S COTTAGE - NIGHT

A storm rages outside. Inside, Elian sits in darkness. A plate of untouched food. Dust has begun to gather. He stares at nothing.

He opens his journal. Blank pages.

He closes it. Stand up. Looks at Nan’s old shawl. Wraps it around himself.

---

VILLAGE CENTER - NEXT DAY

A fire had broken out in the bakery. Thick, black smoke twisted into the sky. Flames snarled like wild beasts through dry timber. The air burned. Panic spread like the fire itself. Villagers scrambled—shouting, dropping water buckets, bumping into one another. The heat was blinding. The chaos, unbearable. And then—

THE BAKER - My son... he’s still inside!

The shouting stopped. Faces turned. Feet froze. Not from cruelty—but from fear. And there, far back in the crowd—almost forgotten—stood Elian. Silent. Motionless. Watching.

THE BAKER (PLEADING) - Someone, please! My boy’s still in there!

No one moved. Elian took one breath. Just one. Then turned to leave—just for a second. 

A voice echoed in his soul.

NAN (V.O.) - “Even when it hurts. Even when they don’t deserve it.”

He closed his eyes. Dropped his bag. Ran. Straight into the flames. Inside, smoke choked every breath. He wrapped a cloth around his mouth, crouched low, and fought through falling beams and splintering glass. Behind the counter—Thomas. Curled up, barely breathing. Elian lifted him. Shielded his body. And walked back through the fire. And then—out of the smoke. A gasp rippled across the village square as Elian stumbled forth, burned and coughing, with Thomas safe in his arms.

He laid the boy down gently—no glory, no words. But before he could step back—

THOMAS (WEAKLY)
Elian...

Elian paused, turning.

THOMAS (VOICE TREMBLING)
Please... don’t go. - He pushed himself up, coughing hard. His eyes, bloodshot. His voice, cracked. But it rang across the square.

THOMAS (LOUDER)
It wasn’t him. A hush fell. Complete stillness.

THOMAS (CONT'D) - It was me. I took the money. The tools. The trinkets. All of it.

People froze.

THOMAS (CONT'D)
I was the one who stole from you. Again and again. I liked it. I don’t even know why. Maybe it was for attention. Maybe it was just the thrill.

He looked at Elian.

THOMAS (SOFTLY) - And every time he caught me... he let it go. He tried to talk to me. He tried to help.

Gasps. One woman covered her mouth. Another turned away in shame.

THOMAS (LOOKING DOWN) - But when the old money box from the bakery went missing... and you all turned on him... I stayed quiet.

His voice cracked.

THOMAS (CONT'D) - And he—he didn’t say a word. He took the blame. Because he didn’t want my father to be humiliated. Because he respected him like a father. Because he treated me like a little brother.

Silence.

Painful. Exposing.

THOMAS (CONT'D)
You called him a thief. You looked into his eyes and saw only guilt. You closed your doors to him. But all he ever did... was protect me.

The baker fell to his knees, sobbing.

THE BAKER - What have we done...

He reached out and clutched Elian’s burnt hands.

THE BAKER (CHOKING) - My son was saved by the very boy I helped destroy...

His wife dropped beside him, her head resting at Elian’s feet. One by one, the villagers began stepping forward.

MR. DUFFY - We didn’t just misjudge you. We betrayed you.

WOMAN IN CROWD (TEARS IN HER EYES) - We turned our backs on a heart that never turned away from us.

A murmur swept through the crowd—not of noise, but of awakening.

Children came closer. Some reached for Elian’s sleeve. Others just stared, wide-eyed, at a boy who had carried fire and silence, both, without complaint.

A man stepped forward, voice breaking.

VILLAGER
Please... just once. Let us carry you. They lifted him—not in triumph.
Not in pride.
But in apology.
In reverence.

Elian didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His red eyes—filled not just with smoke, but with months of swallowed hurt—held everything. A tear rolled down his cheek. And that one tear said it all.

---

AT NAN’S GRAVE – TWILIGHT

The sky bleeds amber. The air is still. Elian stands alone, a small figure against the falling light. The grave before him is marked simply:

"NAN – The one who taught me to stay soft in a hard world." He places a hand gently on the stone, fingers trembling.

ELIAN
You told me, Nan... to stay warm even when the world turns cold. To give, even when I was empty.

His eyes well, but he doesn’t wipe the tears. He lets them fall.

ELIAN (CONT’D)
They doubted me. Accused me. Broke me. And I still chose to stay whole.

He closes his eyes for a long breath. When they open, there's light in them—not the fire of anger, but the quiet strength of grace.

ELIAN (CONT’D)
Not because they deserved it...But because that's who I am. He smiles. Not with pride, but with peace. If the world forgets how to be good... then someone must remember.

The wind rises—a gentle hush through the trees, as if Nan herself is listening. He stands. The silence embraces him.

ELIAN (TO THE SKY) - Don’t change for the storm. Be the shelter.

He turns. Walks slowly away. 

"In a world that gave him every reason to hate, he chose to heal.

He remained good—even when the world wasn’t.

And in doing so, reminded us who we could be."