Then, without a word, without a flicker of acknowledgment beyond that initial gaze, Vihaan turned. He moved slowly, his steps heavy, and walked out of the living room, towards the hallway that led to their bedroom. The silence in the living room seemed to deepen, thick and absolute, broken only by the relentless drumming of the rain outside. She remained on the sofa, her gaze now fixed on the flickering light, her expression unreadable as the sound of Vihaan's retreating footsteps faded into the quiet of the house.
The click of the bedroom door echoed softly through the silent house, a small punctuation mark in the heavy stillness. Vihaan stood just inside, the darkness a cool balm against his burning eyes, a welcome absence of the harsh fluorescent glare of the office. He could hear the steady rhythm of the rain against the windowpane, a relentless drumming that seemed to mimic the frantic, uneven beat of his own heart. He didn't turn on the light, welcoming the shadows that pooled around him, a temporary, fragile shield against the sharp edges of reality.
He stripped off his wet clothes, the damp fabric clinging to his skin like a second, mournful layer. They fell to the floor in heavy, sodden heaps, mirroring the weight that pressed down on his chest.
The chill in the room raised goosebumps on his arms, a physical manifestation of the emotional cold that had settled deep within him. But he didn't move to find something dry, didn't seek comfort. He simply stood there, a statue carved from grief and rain, the silence amplifying the hollow ache in his soul.
The rain continued its relentless assault on the roof, each drop a tiny, insistent hammer blow against the fragile walls of his composure. He thought of Arv's words, the raw honesty that had cut through his self-pity, the unwelcome reminder of shared pain. She's hurting too. The simple sentence echoed in the darkness, a persistent whisper that chipped away at his isolation.
Downstairs, the oppressive silence that had suffocated the house began to fray at the edges, torn apart by the hesitant notes of the piano. A fragile melody, trembling like a wounded bird, began its ascent up the darkened stairs. It was a simple air, a piece they both had cherished, a tune often hummed during quiet evenings, now stripped bare of its former joy, its notes exposed and vulnerable. Each key struck was a sigh, a soft exhalation of sorrow that hung heavy in the air, laden with unshed tears. The melody was played with a halting touch, each phrase punctuated by long, aching pauses that spoke volumes of the vast emptiness that now echoed through the house, a silence more profound than any absence of sound.
It ran like a choked sob caught in the throat, each note a painful reminder of shared laughter now silenced, of whispered secrets lost to the relentless, uncaring march of time. The sadness woven into the music was palpable, a raw, visceral ache that seemed to emanate from the very wood of the instrument, seeping into the walls, a tangible expression of the profound grief that neither of them could articulate in words. It was a melody of absence, a poignant echo of a love that lingered like a ghost in the silent rooms, each note a mournful footstep in the hollowed halls of their shared memories, a lament that painted the darkness with shades of deepest blue.
The night passed quietly, filled only with the mournful cadences of the piano from downstairs.
Vihaan stood in the dark bedroom, a silent sentinel, each note a fresh incision into his wounded soul. The music, a ragged tapestry of sorrow, finally frayed and ceased, leaving the house to the soft patter of rain—a hushed applause for a grief too profound for words. Neither Vihaan nor his wife moved towards each other, caught in separate eddies of thought, the chasm between them unbridgeable.
Dawn arrived with a reluctant sigh, the sun bleeding bruised light through rain-streaked windows. They moved through the house like satellites in opposing orbits—Vihaan lingering in the shower's scalding spray until his skin burned pink, she methodically wiping counters already pristine. The coffee machine gurgled its morning elegy, a low, mournful hum. Two mugs materialized on the table, steam curling in parallel spirals that never touched, a stark visual metaphor for their silent estrangement.
He paused in the doorway, fingers whitening around the frame, a silent plea in his rigid posture. She stood at the sink, shoulders hunched as if carrying the weight of every unspoken word. Her reflection flickered in the microwave door, a ghost in the polished surface. For a heartbeat, their eyes met in the warped glass—a collision of shared anguish and tentative longing, a distorted mirror reflecting their shattered world. Her lips parted, a fragile butterfly wing. He leaned forward imperceptibly, breath held.
The toaster's abrupt, mechanical click shattered the fragile moment, severing the unseen thread that had momentarily connected them. They ate standing at opposite ends of the kitchen, the clink of cutlery against ceramic like Morse code neither could decipher, each sound a stark reminder of the vast, echoing silence between them.
Just as the last echoes of their silent breakfast faded, the doorbell rang, sharp and insistent. Vihaan flinched. He glanced at her, then set down his untouched coffee and moved slowly towards the front door.
When he opened it, the cool morning light, still bruised with the remnants of rain, sliced diagonally across the figure standing on their porch. Gotham Bills filled the doorway like a corporate monolith, a stark, imposing presence. The CEO of Summit Group stood ramrod straight in a Savile Row suit that seemed to shed the morning damp with an almost aristocratic disdain. His signature silver cufflinks – caught the light as he subtly adjusted his tie, a familiar gesture of control. But something in his usually unyielding posture was subtly askew, a barely perceptible tremor in the air around him.
"Vihaan." His voice, typically a polished instrument of boardroom authority, held an unfamiliar tremor, a current of... was that hesitation? A note Vihaan had never heard before.
"Morning," Gotham added, his gaze holding Vihaan's.
To be continued..... 😊😊