The morning Kihoru disappeared, the world didn't notice.
The sun rose the same way it always did. Vendors shouted on the streets like they always had. Buses groaned awake. Milk packets were thrown onto doorsteps. Children ran late to school.
Life moved forward without hesitation.
But one boy did not.
Kihoru stood at the edge of his narrow lane before sunrise. The sky was still dark blue, the kind that felt empty and endless at the same time. A stray dog slept near a broken drain. Somewhere far away, a temple bell rang once.
His bag felt heavier than it ever had before.
Inside it—some clothes, a half-torn notebook, a water bottle, and the last fifty rupees his mother had secretly pressed into his palm the night before.
She hadn't cried.
She had only cupped his face and said in a voice that didn't shake,
"Whatever you are running toward… don't stop."
He didn't say goodbye to his father.
He didn't need to.
He took one last look at the door of the house that had never felt like home.
Then he turned away.
Six Months of Disappearing
No one knew where he went.
Not his teachers.
Not his classmates.
Not even the bullies who once owned his fear.
To them, Kihoru simply vanished.
On the first day, his seat stayed empty.
On the second day, the teacher paused at his name, then moved on.
On the third day, someone sat there.
By the end of the week, it was as if he had never existed.
At first, people joked.
"Maybe he finally exploded."
"Ran away after eating too much."
"Probably died under his own weight."
Laughter passed easily over his absence.
Then weeks passed.
Then months.
And eventually, no one spoke his name anymore.
Except one person.
Aanya still glanced at the last bench sometimes.
And felt something missing.
The City That Swallowed Him
Kihoru walked until the streets became unfamiliar.
He didn't have a destination. He only had distance.
The farther he walked, the quieter his memories became.
At first, his legs hurt.
Then his shoulders.
Then his back.
By evening, his whole body felt like one long bruise.
He slept on a railway platform that night. The cement was cold. Trains roared past like monsters that never slept. A drunk man argued with shadows nearby. Rats moved along the tracks like ghosts.
He hugged his bag to his chest and shut his eyes.
Sleep came only after exhaustion crushed fear.
The next days blurred together.
He slept under staircases.
In unfinished buildings.
On empty shop verandas after midnight.
Sometimes stray dogs barked through the darkness.
Sometimes drunk men shouted at invisible enemies.
Sometimes the night was quiet enough to make him feel more alone than afraid.
Hunger became routine.
Pain became background noise.
But fear?
Fear slowly began to leave him.
Because once you lose everything, you stop being scared of losing more.
The Days Without a Name
During the day, he wandered.
He watched shop shutters open in the morning.
Watched men lift heavy iron rods into trucks, their muscles straining under effort.
Watched construction workers climb bamboo scaffolding without safety ropes.
Watched boys his age laugh with friends, phones in their hands, lives still intact.
Sometimes he stood near tea stalls just to smell food.
Sometimes he waited outside hotels until someone left leftovers on a plate.
Sometimes he went without eating.
His body complained loudly at first.
Then it learned to stay silent.
He watched fighters too.
Not in gyms.
In parks.
Under bridges.
On open terraces where men shadowboxed in the early mornings.
Their fists cut through air like knives.
Their feet moved fast, controlled.
Their breathing was loud but steady.
He never approached them.
Never spoke.
He only watched.
And memorized.
Stances.
Foot movement.
Balance.
Timing.
It wasn't training.
It was survival curiosity.
The First Real Night of Breaking
One night, heavy rain trapped him under a half-built roof.
Water leaked from every crack. Cold crawled into his bones.
His clothes were soaked.
His stomach ached.
His hands trembled.
And for the first time since leaving—
He cried.
Not loudly.
Not desperately.
Just silently.
Tears mixing with rain.
Because for the first time, there was no classroom to escape into.
No mother's presence in the other room.
No illusion of tomorrow.
Only sky above.
Concrete below.
And nothing in between.
The Slow Death of the Old Kihoru
Weeks passed.
The softness of his body began to resist.
Running from guards.
Climbing over low walls.
Dodging drunk men in narrow streets.
He was still fat.
Still slow.
But no longer completely helpless.
His lungs started lasting longer.
His legs stopped shaking as quickly.
Pain stopped being shocking.
It became… familiar.
One afternoon, a group of older boys noticed him watching them train near a park.
They laughed.
"Go back to eating, ball."
"Careful, he might roll over us."
Something changed inside him then.
Not anger.
Not courage.
Just… stillness.
For the first time in his life—
He didn't run.
He stood.
They stopped laughing.
The moment passed.
They lost interest.
But inside Kihoru—
A tiny crack had formed.
And through it, something new breathed.
His Mother's Silent War
Back home, his mother fought her own battle.
Neighbors asked questions.
Teachers called.
His father shouted.
She lied.
Every single time.
"He's staying with relatives."
"He went for studies."
"He'll come back soon."
At night, she lit a small diya near the window.
Not for God.
For hope.
She slept hugging his pillow.
And whispered,
"Survive."
The World That Replaced Him
At school, life adjusted.
His bench got a new owner.
Rithvik grew louder.
Teachers forgot faster.
Even his old nickname faded.
Only one notebook remained in a girl's bag.
Unread.
Untouched.
But never thrown away.
The City Tested Him
There were nights he was chased.
Nights he was cornered.
Once, a man grabbed his collar for being in the wrong alley.
Kihoru slipped free and ran until his lungs felt like they would burst.
He vomited afterward.
And laughed quietly while shaking.
Not because it was funny.
Because he was still alive.
Another night, he shared a piece of roti with a stray dog.
The dog followed him for two days.
Then vanished.
Like everything else.
The Thought That Wouldn't Leave
As weeks turned into months, a thought stayed locked inside him:
"I cannot go back as I am."
He didn't know what he would become.
He didn't even know how to survive properly.
But he knew one truth with frightening clarity—
If he returned unchanged, he would die the same way he once lived.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Unnoticed.
The Mirror Without a Mirror
There were no mirrors on the streets.
But he saw his reflection in shop glass sometimes.
His cheeks were less round.
His eyes were darker.
His posture… different.
Still weak.
Still broken.
But no longer folded inward.
Something was straightening.
Not his body.
His will.
Six Months Later…
Six months passed.
The seasons shifted.
The air grew heavier.
The city accepted him as a ghost that never left.
He still slept where he could.
Still ate what he could.
Still watched strength from a distance.
Still carried the same notebook.
Still remembered every insult.
Every kick.
Every laugh.
The boy who had once cried silently in a locked room…
Now stared back at the world without blinking.
Not strong.
Not fearless.
But no longer invisible.
Kihoru did not return.
The world assumed he never would.
But somewhere between hunger and exhaustion…
Between concrete and starlight…
Between memories and silence…
A broken child stopped waiting to be saved.