The old farmhouse sat at the edge of town, swallowed by trees and silence. Its walls were weathered, forgotten. But tonight, it carried a purpose more sacred than ever—hiding what little remained of a family torn apart.
Inside, antiseptic clung to the air. Machines settled. Gauze rustled. Two nurses moved in quiet rhythm, tending to Aarav and Mr. Rawat, their bodies broken reminders of the attack.
Ayan sat by Aarav's bed, pale in the lamplight, hands trembling in his lap. He hadn't spoken since their arrival. He couldn't—because he knew who might have ordered the bullets: his father.
And the ones fighting for life here—the Rawats—were the only people who had given him warmth.
His gaze stayed on Aarav's face, desperate for a flicker of life, of forgiveness. Nothing came. Machines breathed for him.
Ayan's lip quivered. He dropped his eyes, ashamed of the tears.
Across the room, Abhi sat rigid in a chair, arms locked around himself, his hand wrapped in a bandage. But nothing healed him. Silence clung tighter than fabric.
When he rose, it wasn't with purpose but with desperation, as if stillness would suffocate him. He stepped toward the nurses.
"Thank you. I'll take over now."
One froze. "But sir, they need constant monitoring. We can't just—"
Abhi turned his head slowly. His voice cut, low and cold. "I said I'll manage. Please leave."
Something in his tone—threat wrapped in exhaustion—sent the nurses gathering their things without protest. He was afraid to trust any outsider anymore.
The nurses slipped out, leaving the room in silence once more.
Abhi moved to his father's bedside. Ayan watched him, wordless.
Abhi sat, eyes tracing the wounds carved across his father's body, the pale rise of the oxygen mask. He tried to whisper, but no sound came. His throat closed, his breath hitched.
His gaze slid to Aarav. His brother. Stern, unshakable—and now so still he looked like someone else.
The machines' beeping turned cruel, a lullaby too steady for grief. Abhi turned, walking out into the silent lawn, his steps fading like smoke.
Outside, the sky stretched wide, stars smudged behind thin clouds. The wind tugged at his sleeves like a missing hand. He sank onto the porch steps, staring at the horizon. Stars blinked cold and distant. The darkness gave no answers.
Abhi swallowed, exhausted. Broken. A voice cut through—the memory of Arun. Then shoot.
It struck sharp. Arun's face. His eyes—pleading for someone who had almost killed his family. It shattered him into pieces.
"I wish I could hate you," he whispered, broken. "It would make everything easier."
He leaned back at the door—slow, quiet, surrendering. No fists, no outburst. Just the crumble of a boy who had tried too long to be strong, and now, alone beneath a foreign sky, could not anymore.
Everything he once feared to cherish now clung to him—Arun's warmth, a love he couldn't erase. And he didn't know if anything could ever be put back together again.
---
[Mr. Singh's room]
The grand room stood in dignified silence. Chandeliers glowed dim amber, shadows stretching across the marbled floor. The heavy drapes were drawn, letting in only a thin draft of night that settled cold over the loneliness.
Mr. Singh sat alone in a high-backed chair by the hearth—unlit, cold. No scotch. No phone calls. Only stillness. And memory.
In his hands lay an old photo album, edges frayed, cover dulled. A younger self stared back—proud, confident, almost smug. Beside him, Mr. Rawat, eyes closed, features softened in sleep. Both in school uniforms, caught in a moment warm, soft. Undisturbed.
His fingers trembled as he traced their faces. Voices stirred from the past—
"Papa, it's not Uncle Aadi's fault."
"It's just a piece of land, Master."
"He's my father. I know him. He can't do this."
"Being your son costs too much..."
Words he had brushed aside like lint on a suit. Strength, control—that was all he had trusted. Now, in the silence, he saw the wreckage left by pride and anger.
He turned a page. Another photo: himself, smiling wide, eyes glimmering with warmth. A flicker. A memory.
...
The Hillside Road. Years ago.
The sky burned orange as the wind stirred the tall grass along the narrow bridge above the town. Mr. Singh and Mr. Rawat, still in their youth, walked side by side, a camera swaying loosely from Rawat's hand.
The air held the damp sweetness of wildflowers after summer rain. Gravel crunched beneath their shoes. Not clingy. Not warm. But still together—by duty, by the house that pressed equally on their young shoulders.
Mr. Singh shoved his hands into his pockets. "Papa wants me to finish business school and take over faster."
Mr. Rawat slowed, resting his arms on the bridge's railing before glancing over. "Is that what you want?"
Mr. Singh hesitated. "I want something that outlasts me. Control. Respect. To be like Father—actually better."
Rawat's lips curved. "Ambitious enough."
"Focused," Singh corrected, smirking. "And you? Don't you want to be a photographer?"
Mr. Rawat's gaze stayed forward. "I'd rather stay beside you than chase anything alone."
Mr. Singh glanced at him, caught off guard. Sentiment was Mr. Rawat's domain, not his.
Mr. Rawat added quietly, "Overseas, city, or stuck here forever—I'll walk beside you."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was the kind that carried trust.
Mr. Singh's ears flushed red. He looked away toward the valley. "I think I might've fallen for you by now."
Mr. Rawat chuckled. "Then finalize the story… because in the end, you will..." He turned, smiling.
They met each other's eyes, then broke into laughter—young, unguarded. And when the sun finally sank beyond the hills, they stood side by side, boys carrying a future too heavy to name, but certain they would not carry it alone.
---
Mr. Singh blinked the memory away, jaw tightening. Mr. Rawat had kept that vow—always beside him, never once defying his orders. And what had he given in return? Hate. Distance.
A soft knock broke the stillness. The door opened, and Mr. Raj stepped in—unhurried, empty-handed. No reports. Just presence.
He paused, studying Mr. Singh's posture. In all these twenty years, he had never seen him like this.
"Master…" His voice was gentle, careful. "Power can shield you from enemies. But not from loved ones walking away."
Mr. Singh didn't lift his gaze. He didn't need to. The words struck, quiet but devastating.
When he finally spoke, his voice wasn't commanding—it was weary, stripped bare. "They protected me with everything they had… and I never once asked if they were happy."
The air grew heavy. Mr. Raj's throat tightened. He started to speak, stopped. Stepped forward, faltered. The truth pressed against him, sharp and unrelenting.
"Master…" His voice broke into a whisper, laced with guilt. "There's something I should have told you long ago."
Mr. Singh raised his head slightly. No suspicion—only a quiet readiness, the kind of acceptance that comes when a man is too tired to brace for another blow.
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It throbbed—with guilt, fear, betrayal, and the weight of a truth too long buried. Waiting to rupture. To cleanse. To finally surface from the shadows.