Ethan had always seen the world differently. Numbers, patterns, ideas—they came to him like second nature, flowing as easily as rivers down a slope. While other kids were still fumbling with homework, Ethan was sketching out inventions on napkins, taking apart broken radios, or scribbling equations that didn't belong in a tenth grader's notebook.
Teachers whispered about him being "gifted." His father called him "sharp-eyed," the kind of boy who noticed things others missed. His mother just shook her head, laughing when he dismantled the kitchen clock only to rebuild it better. And Meera—his little sister—well, she was the one who bragged about him to anyone who'd listen.
"He's a genius," she told her friends once, tugging at Ethan's sleeve. "One day he's going to change the world."
Ethan rolled his eyes, embarrassed, but secretly… he wanted to believe it.
That day on the bus, sunlight streamed through the windows, warm against his face. He sat with a small notebook on his lap, scribbling rough sketches of something—an idea for a cheap water filter he'd thought up while staring at the sink back home. His father teased him about it.
"Vacation, Ethan. Not science fair prep," his dad said, grinning through the rearview mirror.
"Let him be," his mom added, laughing. "If he wants to invent something on the way, let him. Maybe one day we'll say the great genius started with a bus ride."
Meera leaned close, peeking at his sketches. "You're going to be famous, I know it. But don't forget me when you're rich, okay?"
Ethan smirked. "You? You'd probably spend all my money on ice cream."
"Better than you spending it on boring tools," she shot back, elbowing him.
Their parents smiled at the banter. For a while, the bus was filled with nothing but their laughter, the rumble of the wheels, and the comfort of being together.
Then came the screech.
It wasn't just sound—it was a knife dragged across the world. The bus swerved, tires screaming, glass shattering into webs of light. The horizon folded, people shouted, and Ethan's notebook went flying, its pages scattering like broken wings.
He felt his father's arms shove him back, holding him, protecting him. His mother's hands pressed over his head. Meera's small fingers clawed for his, desperate.
"Ethan!" his father's voice—firm, urgent—roared over the chaos. "Hold her! Don't let go!"
"I'm here!" he gasped, but the words drowned in smoke and dust.
His mother's voice was the last anchor: "We're with you. Always."
And then the world went black.
When Ethan opened his eyes again, the light was cruel—white, unkind. His vision blurred, adjusting to a nightmare. The bus was a cage of twisted steel. Smoke, blood, silence. His father's body draped forward, one arm still stretched protectively across Meera. His mother curled beside them, her face frozen in the shape of a prayer.
Ethan's chest broke. "Dad? Mom?" His voice cracked, childlike, begging. "Please—"
They did not move.
Hands—strangers' hands—pulled at him, dragging him out. He kicked, screamed, tried to crawl back. His voice tore itself raw.
Then he heard it.
A cough. Faint, broken. Meera.
She was alive. Bloody, shaken, her forehead split—but breathing. Alive.
Ethan's relief came sharp as a blade. His genius, his inventions, his bright future—none of it mattered in that moment. He clutched her hand, trembling. He wanted to promise her something, anything, but his father's words rang in his skull: "Look after each other. Be each other's shield."
And so the boy who could solve problems no one else could was left with the one problem he would never fix: bringing them back.
That day, beneath a shattered sky, Ethan's childhood ended.
Ten years had passed, but the graves looked as if they had been carved yesterday. The names etched into the stone were sharp, unyielding. Ethan knelt before them, his knees pressed into damp earth, his hands trembling as he traced the letters over and over again.
"Hey," he whispered, voice low, almost ashamed. "It's me. I'm… still here."
The cemetery was silent, broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the occasional cry of a crow. Life moved on beyond the gates, but here, time stayed still.
"I couldn't finish school," he admitted, each word heavier than the last. "After you were gone, there was nothing left. Meera tried to carry us. She worked herself half to death while I…" He let out a bitter laugh. "While I scrub dishes in a restaurant kitchen, treated like trash, called names, shoved around. The so-called 'genius' reduced to scalded hands and broken sleep."
He pressed his palms flat against the gravestone, his chest tight. "But I kept going. Because she was still here. Meera. She was my shield. She—she made sure we didn't starve. Every coin she sent, every word she wrote… she kept your promise, Dad. She carried us when I couldn't."
His throat closed up. The tears came despite him trying to choke them back. "I miss you. Both of you. Every damn day. But Meera kept me alive. She made me believe there was still something worth living for."
His phone buzzed in his pocket. The sound was jarring in the stillness. He frowned, wiping his face and pulling it out. The number was one he knew, tied to the small hostel where Meera lived.
"Hello?" he answered quickly.
The voice on the other end wasn't hers. It was calm, too calm, rehearsed. "Are you Ethan?"
"Yes. Who is this?"
"I'm calling from the hostel. There was… an accident. I'm sorry, but—your sister didn't make it."
The words detonated inside him.
Ethan froze. His breath hitched, his chest refusing to expand. The phone slipped from his hands and landed in the dirt with a dull thud.
The graves blurred before him, stone swimming in his vision. He tilted his head back, staring at the sky. The stars blinked above, indifferent, cold.
"No," he whispered. "No, no, no…"
His voice cracked into silence. His body felt hollow, as if every part of him had been scooped out. First his parents, now Meera—the last anchor to his world, ripped away with a sentence.
The boy who had been called a genius, who had once dreamed of inventions and futures, was nothing now. Nothing but a man with no family, no purpose, no reason to keep breathing.
He rose, staggering, and walked as if pulled by gravity itself. His feet carried him out of the cemetery, down the cracked stone path, until he stood before the old temple at the edge of town.
Inside, the air was heavy with incense, thick and cloying. Gods looked down from painted alcoves, their faces serene, untouchable. The flames of oil lamps flickered as if mocking him.
Ethan's fists clenched. "Why?" His voice echoed against the stone pillars. "Why them? Why her? Wasn't it enough to take my parents? You left me with one reason—just one—and you tore that away too!"
His voice rose, raw, ragged. "Is this your justice? Is this what you call mercy?" He slammed his fists against the floor. "Answer me!"
The ground rumbled beneath him.
At first it was subtle, like the murmur of a train far underground. Then it grew, louder, angrier, until the temple walls groaned, the floor cracked, and the roof trembled as if the gods themselves had stirred.
People screamed, running for the exit, but Ethan stayed rooted in place, chest heaving, eyes burning.
"If this is your answer," he shouted, "then take me!"
A massive pillar split free, stone shrieking as it crashed toward him.
For one fleeting second, he saw Meera's face—not broken, not bloody, but smiling the way she always did, stubborn and bright.
And then the pillar fell, the world collapsed, and everything went dark.