The Boy Who Lost His Voice

design color pages for the following story: **The Boy Who Lost His Voice** **Page 1** In the glowing city of Luma, lights blinked, and screens buzzed from morning until night. Children learned to swipe before they learned to wave. People talked fast, listened in flashes, and hurried everywhere—even when they had nowhere special to go. In this city of constant sound and light, lived a boy named Rayan. And Rayan loved silence. **Page 2** Rayan was very good with glowing screens. He could tap, swipe, and solve puzzles faster than anyone. One rainy afternoon, he found a new game. It shimmered like a pool of dark water. A message appeared: *“Welcome. Here, voices are unnecessary.”* Rayan smiled. “No talking? Perfect.” In the game, no one spoke. Players pointed, flashed symbols, and raced. Rayan won level after level. **Page 3** That evening, his mother called, “Rayan! Dinner!” He opened his mouth to answer. But no sound came out. He tried to say “Coming!” He tried to clear his throat. Only empty air whispered past his lips. He ran to the mirror and watched himself shout a silent shout. His eyes grew wide with worry. **Page 4** Then, on his pillow, his tablet glowed. Words drifted across the screen like mist: *“You traded your voice. You no longer need it.”* Rayan shook his head fiercely. He grabbed the tablet. “I DO need it!” he tried to yell, but the room stood hushed. The screen flickered one last, sly message: *“Then learn to listen.”* **Page 5** Rayan wandered the noisy house, a silent island. He passed his sister, laughing on a call. He passed the blaring news on the TV. The sounds felt like a wall. Then, he remembered the quietest room. **Page 6** His grandfather’s room had no screens. Only books with soft, worn covers, a ticking clock, and a wooden chair by a window. Rayan sat on the rug. His grandfather looked up from his book. “You’re quiet today,” he said. Rayan pointed to his throat, his face full of worry. His grandfather understood. He nodded slowly. “Ah,” he said. And he began to speak. **Page 7** He spoke not of busy things, but of slow things. On mornings when the only sound was a kettle singing on the stove. Of long walks where you could hear the rustle of a single leaf. Of waiting for a letter, and the crinkle of paper that carried a friend’s thoughts. Rayan listened. He listened until he forgot to be afraid. He heard the rhythm in his grandfather’s words, the spaces between them. He realized the silence in the room wasn’t empty. It was full of stories, memories, and peace. **Page 8** As the story ended, Rayan felt a gentle warmth in his throat, like sipping hot cocoa. “Grandpa…” he whispered. The word was soft and raspy, but it was there. It floated in the quiet room. His grandfather’s eyes crinkled with a smile. “Voices return,” he said gently, “when they are needed, not wasted.” **Page 9** That night, the game glowed again on his nightstand. *“Come back,” they pulsed. “No voices. No waiting. Just win.”* Rayan looked at it. He remembered the crowded silence of the game and the full silence of his grandfather’s room. He reached out… …and turned the screen firmly face down. Then, he opened his window. **Page 10** The city hummed below, but now he could pick out the sounds. The distant whistle of a train, the murmur of the breeze, the faint melody from someone’s radio. It was a different kind of quiet, a living one. **Page 11** At breakfast, Rayan said, “Please pass the toast.” He said slowly. He listened to his sister’s dream from the night before, and he didn’t interrupt. His voice wasn’t the loudest at the table, but it was his. And it was enough. The tablet in his bag remained dark and still. **Page 12** In the city of Luma, screens still glowed, and games were still played. But one boy learned something rare: that a voice is not a tool to win, but a bridge to connect. And that listening—true, patient listening—is the gentle sound that brings all other sounds back to life. **The End**