Hi Om,
"If you are reading this, then I am no longer among the living. I have gone to Hari. I want you to stay strong and be there for Sharanya and Shreya. I have always served the Dharma King with unwavering loyalty, and I want you to trust him as I did. I know you might not completely trust him yet, but believe me, Om — he has kept the enemies at bay for over 200 years, preventing them from infiltrating India. His capabilities are beyond question."
"Now, though I may be gone, there are things I must finally tell you. I have kept many truths from you, but today, I can share one of them."
"You are special, Om — and deep down, you must already know it. Have you ever noticed how your mood affects your surroundings? How the environment itself shifts according to your emotions? I have not seen such phenomena even among Soul Stage cultivators."
"There are still many things hidden from you — truths you must discover for yourself. But one thing... I must reveal today."
"Om, you are not my biological son. I found you wrapped in a white cloth on the banks of a river, with only a paper beside you — a single word written on it: Om."
"Sharanya and Shreya have always known. They forbade me from telling you the truth, but I could not leave this world with a lie in my heart. Always remember, Om — though I did not give you life, I have loved you as my own son, every single day."
"Lastly, I must speak to you about Mark. Mark serves the military and holds a high position. He is a mature and trustworthy man. Trust him, Om — he is like a big brother to you, and his connections run deep."
"I will end this letter with one final truth: I love you, Om. And I always will."
— Your father, Viranth
Om finished reading the letter, and tears streamed down his face.
Unable to hold back the emotions flooding him, he stood up, washed his face, and returned to his desk. He read the letter again.
And again.
More than ten times that night.
Eventually, exhaustion overtook him, and he fell asleep at his desk — the crumpled letter clutched tightly in his hand.
Outside, a storm raged over Delhi, the rain unrelenting until morning.
When Om awoke, the first thing his eyes fell upon was the letter. He didn't have the heart to read it again. Quietly, he left his room.
Breakfast was already prepared; his mother had laid it out on the table. Om sat down and ate silently. No one spoke — grief clung to the house like a heavy shroud.
After breakfast, Om left the apartment and rang the doorbell of the neighboring house.
Mark opened the door. Seeing Om, he stepped aside without a word, gesturing for him to come inside.
It was Om's first time entering Mark's home. The place was old-fashioned, filled with ancient paintings and relics. It gave the feeling that time had slowed within these walls.
Mark disappeared into the kitchen to prepare coffee, while Om's eyes wandered. He noticed smoke seeping out from under a closed door.
Curious, he called out, "There's smoke coming from that room! What's going on?"
Mark's voice answered from the kitchen, "That's my prayer room. You can take a look if you want."
Driven by curiosity, Om moved closer and gently pushed open the door.
A thick, sacred smoke filled the room. In the center stood a large Shivling, water droplets continuously falling upon it from above.
Om stared in awe. He had seen many prayer rooms before, but nothing like this — this was a full shrine, a temple hidden within a home.
Mark returned with two cups of coffee. Handing one to Om, he smiled.
Om couldn't hold his curiosity anymore. "Why do you have such a massive Shivling in your house?"
Mark chuckled lightly. "As you can see, I love collecting old things. But this Shivling has been in my family for generations. It has a long history — I won't bore you with the details. Just know that the life I have today is a blessing from Lord Shiva."
Om nodded thoughtfully, taking a sip of his coffee.
They returned to the living room, sitting opposite each other.
Om spoke after a moment's hesitation. "Last night, I found my father's message."
Mark nodded, unsurprised.
Om pressed on, "Mark... how much do you know about me?"
Mark's expression remained calm. "I know a lot, Om."
"Do you know who my real parents are?" Om asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Mark shook his head. "No. I only know you were found by the river."
Om sighed. Somehow, he had expected that answer. "I guess that means... I might not even be from India. Maybe I come from the territory of the Eternal Kingdom."
Mark smiled faintly. "Yes. That's very likely."
Om was silent for a moment, then asked, "Where are your parents? I've never seen them. Do they live nearby?"
The smile faded from Mark's face.
"They're gone," he said softly.
Om immediately regretted the question but kept his composure. "I'm sorry to hear that, Mark."
Mark forced a small smile. "It's alright. They passed away a long time ago."
Om could see the deep pain in his eyes, and he knew — Mark wasn't just saying it. He had lived through that sorrow.
And now, Om realized... he wasn't alone in his grief.