The rooftop where wishes were buried

 


Urban Fable | The Rooftop Where Wishes Were Buried

By Faraz Parvez
Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal
Former Faculty Member, Umm Al Qura University, Makkah, KSA
(Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal)

🌃 “Some rooftops carry water tanks. Some carry ghosts. This one carried wishes.”

In a half-forgotten corner of Lahore’s old city, the buildings leaned like tired relatives resting on each other’s shoulders. On the fifth floor of a crumbling haveli, children from the neighborhood would sneak up a spiral staircase every dusk and gather on a rooftop that technically belonged to no one.

The breeze always seemed stronger there.
And the sky, strangely closer.

It began with a dare.

The Whispering Game

Ten-year-old Ayan, the boldest of the bunch, once said,

“If you whisper a wish into the cracks of the floor and cover it with a stone, it comes true by morning.”

Of course, no one believed him. Until Zoya did it.

She whispered, “I want Baba to smile again.”
By morning, her father—once silent after a factory layoff—was humming an old filmi song while frying eggs.

Then Hassan wished for a new pair of shoes.
And Fatima, for her mother’s illness to vanish.
The rooftop, it seemed, was listening.

The Rooftop’s Secret

Soon, the children formed a secret circle. They met each evening to bury their whispered dreams in the gaps between bricks, covering them like sacred seeds.

No adults knew.
No one questioned the sudden brightness in these children’s eyes.

But strange things began happening.

Ayaan’s sick uncle woke up cured.
Zoya’s missing cat returned wearing a golden collar.
A new lantern appeared on the rooftop, glowing blue, though no one had placed it there.

And then one day, Rehan—the quietest of them—wished for his dead brother to return.

The next morning, a boy came knocking at their street. He looked like the lost brother. Sounded like him. But there was something… off.
He never blinked.
He never aged.

A Knock from Below

One evening, while the children prepared to whisper their wishes, they heard knocking from beneath the rooftop floor. Rhythmic. Slow. Measured.

Ayan, terrified but curious, lifted a loose brick. Underneath it, he found…

Another wish. Written in chalk. In handwriting they didn’t recognize.

It read:

“Please stop.”

They pulled more bricks. Dozens of old wishes—wishes they hadn’t made—littered the space.

Each written in a child’s hand.
Each from decades ago.

The Truth Unburied

The next day, an old woman in the neighborhood, who hadn't spoken in years, muttered while staring at the rooftop:

“Not again. They never learn. That rooftop doesn’t grant wishes. It collects them. It traps them. And when it’s full…”

She never finished her sentence.

That night, the rooftop caved in. No one was hurt. But the staircase disappeared. As if it had never existed.

Epilogue: Rooftop of the Forgotten

The haveli was sold. Renovated. Painted. But no builder could make a rooftop stick. Each new structure collapsed. Locals whispered that the house didn’t want a rooftop anymore.

Because too many wishes were buried there.
And some of them were still whispering back.

🌌 Why This Fable Matters

We all whisper into cracks. Into voids. Into silence.
Some do it with prayer. Some with poetry. Some with pain.

But not every silence is empty.
Not every wish should be granted.
And not every rooftop wants to remember.

🔮 Read More Urban Tales That Stir the Soul

📖 Visit farazparvez1.blogspot.com
Your doorway to surreal stories, forgotten truths, and magical realism rooted in our very own subcontinent.

✨ Stay tuned—more tales rise with every sunset.


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