A boy called the police and said that his parents

Inside the room, the air was heavy, as if life itself had been extinguished. The windows were covered with thick curtains, and the dim light barely outlined the furniture. On the floor, near the bed, lay two adults.

The officer instinctively stepped back, but steadied himself and moved closer. The boy’s mother and father were stretched out on the carpet, motionless, their faces pale. Beside them, several empty pill bottles and a half-toppled bottle.

— My God… — he murmured.

His colleague quickly entered the room, pulling on her medical gloves. She checked their pulses. A faint heartbeat was still there. They were alive, but unconscious.

— Call an ambulance! Quickly! — she shouted.

The officer immediately pressed his radio, reporting the situation. Meanwhile, the boy remained in the hallway, his eyes wide open. He didn’t cry, he didn’t move. It seemed he already knew what was happening, carrying on his fragile shoulders a burden far too heavy for his age.

— They always fought… — he said quietly, when the policewoman approached him. — Dad yelled, Mom cried… and today… today they said they couldn’t take it anymore.

She crouched down to his level and placed a hand on his shoulder. In the boy’s eyes was not only fear, but also a painful maturity born from suffering.

The ambulance arrived within minutes. Paramedics rushed in and began resuscitation. The parents were stabilized and carried out on stretchers, under the unblinking gaze of the child.

Neighbors began to gather on the sidewalk, whispering among themselves. That house, always silent and seemingly perfect, had hidden a drama no one imagined.

The policewoman asked the boy if he wanted to go to the hospital or stay with relatives. He shrugged.
— I don’t know if I have anyone… — he said softly.

Then, the woman remembered her own childhood. The evenings when her mother took her by the hand to neighbors for help. In Romanian villages, the community was the shield for children when parents failed. Bonds were formed, a helping hand was extended.

She silently promised that this child would not be left alone.

— Come with us, we’ll take care of you until someone from child protection comes. You are not alone, okay? — she told him, trying to offer a warm smile.

The boy sighed, but took the offered hand.

On the way to the station, the policewoman asked him what made him happy. He lifted his gaze to the window and, after a few moments of silence, said:
— I liked it when I went to my grandparents in the countryside. When I woke up in the morning and heard the rooster, and ran barefoot through the grass. There it was quiet. There they didn’t fight.

The woman felt a lump in her throat. Deep Romania, with the smell of hay and warm bread, remained for many children a place of refuge.

The ambulance sped away with sirens blaring, but for the boy, the sound of the rooster in his memory was stronger. And maybe, one day, he would manage to find peace again where childhood still smelled of wildflowers and freshly baked bread.

The end of that day brought hope. The parents survived, and the child was safe. It wasn’t a fairy tale, but it was a harsh lesson: behind beautifully painted doors, silent dramas can exist. And sometimes, the courage of a child to pick up the phone can save lives.

For the officers, it wasn’t just another case solved. It was the memory of a little boy who, despite fear, chose to believe that someone was there, ready to listen.

And perhaps, for him, that gesture would mark the beginning of a new story, a brighter one. A story where mornings would once again start with the song of the rooster and the hope that life, no matter how hard, can always begin again.