It was a warm day in the city – one of those slow burning afternoons where the sun didn't blaze but lingered , resting gently over the buildings like a blanket pulled half way across the sky .
The streets buzzed with life . People strolled along narrow lanes and uneven pavements , drifting between shops and market stalls , speaking in the burst of laughter and calls .
Children weaved through the crowd with ice creams melting down their fingers , lovers shared shade beneath roadside trees , and families huddled together in the subtle chaos of
everyday life .
The air was thick with humidity , the kind that clung to your shirt and made the breeze feel like a forgotten promise . Yet there was something peaceful in the rhythm of it all – a kind of beauty in the noise . Then came a sound , faint but sharp , cutting through the blend of voices and footsteps.
"waahh....waahh…."
A baby's cry . Soft at first , then stronger – insistent . Somewhere down the lane , a small child clutched its mother's finger tightly , its tiny face scrunched in confusion , discomfort , maybe fear . The mother didn't panic . She simply paused , crouched down and whispered something close to the child's ear , her free hand brushing over its back .
Still , the crying continued , until the baby reached up with trembling hands and grasped her neck , pulling itself closer . Chest to chest . Skin to skin . Silence followed , like a sigh
across the street .
And just beyond them , in the shadows of a small grocery shop tucked between two cement buildings , a boy watched . He stood behind the stack of crates , his hand frozen mid-wipe as he cleaned the dust off glass jars lined in uneven rows . His shirt clung to his back , damp with sweat from a morning of the labor , and his apron hung loose at his side .
But at the moment , he wasn't working .
He was watching .
His eyes didn't move quickly , didn't dart in hunger or search for meaning . He simply looked-with a quiet wonder .A soft smile tugged at his lips . Not wide , not deliberate . The kind of smile that escaped when the heart forgets to hide .
"Hmm… It's a lovely day", he murmured , barely audible even to himself .
He turned back to his task , wiping the same jar he'd been holding for minutes now . "Lovely day", he repeated , a little heavier this time ,"for others".
There was no bitterness in his voice , only distance-like someone standing outside the house on a rainy night , watching through the window at a warm room he'd never enter .
Still , he stole one more glance .
The child had now nested into its mother's shoulder , completely at peace .
The mother stood , adjusting her bag , and began walking again , disappearing into the crowd like a fleeting dream .
And the boy? He kept staring . Until a sharp voice broke the moment .
"Oi! Work's not going to do itself!"
He flinched , the smile vanishing as quickly as it had to come . His boss stood near the counter , arms crossed , frowning .
"Sorry , sir" the boy said , quickly turning back to the shelf .
"No time to be daydreaming , boy . Concentrate on your work " the boss said ,
"Tomorrow we've got someone important visiting the shop . I want everything cleaned and ready before dawn . Not a speck of dust , you hear me ? "
The boy turned toward him , said "yes sir."
Yet he still cast a fleeting glance outside for a moment .
Because for a boy who had known nothing of such a love , even a glimpse of it was enough to make the world feel warm for just a while longer.
The boss lingered for a second longer on the boy , his gaze heavy , almost pressing down on the boy like a silent demand . Then with a grunt and a quick glance toward the streets , he walked off . His steps echoed for a moment before fading into the clatters of everyday noise .
The boy let out a quiet "Tsk,"under his breath – barely even audible – turned back to the shelves .
He resumed cleaning in silence . Rows of glass jars , each catching bits of his reflection , stared back at him . As he wiped them down one by one , he kept catching glimpses of his own face – tired eyes , slightly sunken cheeks . Every time he wiped a jar clean , another reflection emerged , and every time , the same moment returned :
The baby . The mother . The warmth .
It repeated like a loop , like a glitch in memory – one that didn't belong to him , but one he wished did . He imagined himself in the baby's place , held against a loving chest , shielded by arms that had a reason to hold him . A quiet warmth filling the gaps he carried since childhood . He wasn't unfamiliar with scenes like that – he saw them everyday . But the hollow inside him made each one feel like a wound pressed gently , again and again .
By the time he was wiping down the last shelf , the sun had begun to dip behind the buildings , turning the sky a low gold . From a room nearby , laughter and loud voices erupted – his co–workers , most likely . A TV buzzed faintly in the background , then came the yelling.
"Come on , crack his nose !"
"That's it ! Hit his head , man !"
"Let's gooo , I bet my wage on this guy !"
He didn't look up.
The cheering grew louder , sharper . Wresting again . Probably one of those underground broadcasts they steamed online after work . Betting and trash talk followed like clockwork .
He finished cleaning , locked up the room , and stepped towards the group to place the key on the nail embedded into the wall . As he signed the log sheet , ready to leave for the day , one of the guys turned toward him .
"Hey , bro," the guy called out , waving lazily.
"Why don't you join us for a bit ? Seven of us here – bidding on who's gonna win . If you join the other side , it'll be fair . We're just short of one."
The boy turned slowly , his face still and unreadable . For a moment , he hesitated – not because of the way they'd worded it .The way the guy said "it'll be fair." Like he wasn't invited because he mattered – just because they needed a body . A number . A placeholder .
His lips pressed faintly together , then parted .
" I'm not interested," he said , politely , without emotion ." it's time . I'll head back."
He turned to leave , quiet . He walked away . As soon as he stepped out of the door , the room filled with smirks and sideways glances .
The guy watched him go , raising an eyebrow before turning to his friend and muttering under his breath – just loud enough for the others to catch it.
"Man walks like he's got a family waiting at home . What's an orphan rushing back to , anyway ? Gonna go home and hug the wall ?"
Another guy chuckled , mock – crying in a child's voice , "waah , waah, I got no one !"
Another joined in, " He was staring at the baby like it was a candy , man I think he's a pedo . Boss caught him zoned out – is the work gonna do itself ?'- classic."
The laughter echoed
Only one voice cut through it . A quieter one .
"Alright guy , enough . It's his decision , so , let it be . You guy speaks as if u don't know – he has always been this way . Strange . Distant. It's just who he is. "
"yeah whatever ,"
someone else muttered .
"Now come on ! Elbow him , right in the jaw !"
As the boy stepped out into the fading lights of the street . The world outside was quieter now , painted by the soft gray of dusk .
He walked alone . Just like always .
The wind is grazing against his collar. His fingers repeatedly flicked open and shut the flap of his small, worn-out wallet.
The snap of the metal button felt louder than the traffic horns, louder than the murmuring people around. It echoed a kind of monotony—click, open, close, click—again and again, as if that small motion could distract him from something deeper gnawing inside.
Two thousand rupees. A week's worth of effort, sweat, and silence folded into a thin rectangle of currency notes.
His eyes barely lifted from the pavement. He navigated the streets like someone half-awake, seeing just enough not to trip. The glowing lights of city shops blinked in his periphery, the street vendors yelled their evening calls, and the aroma of fried snacks tugged lightly at his hunger.
His legs paused near a snack shop—glass walls glowing from the warmth of lights inside. Laughter leaked from the building. Families, friends, kids clinking glasses, the air inside felt completely alien to the stillness outside.
He climbed the two steps and stood still for a moment.
His eyes met his own reflection on the glass door. Behind the ghost of his face, he saw others living lives that felt too far from his. He looked at himself—thin-framed, tired-eyed, collar slightly misaligned, face dull. For a second, the boy he saw in the glass didn't look like him. It looked like someone forgotten mid-dream.
He walked in.
No left, no right. Head down. A straight path to the counter. His shoes made soft sounds on the tile, muffled by the music and chatter around. The counter guy, smiling from a conversation with his coworker, turned to him.
"Yes sir, what do you want?"
The boy didn't look up.
That voice. "What do you want?" It echoed. A glitch. Fuzzy, like a corrupted video playing on loop.
"What do you want?"
He saw... something. A dim image. Blurry voices for a split second , the words echoed in his mind ..
And his voice—low, nearly a whisper—answered the memory :
"Mom... and Dad."
he didn't realize he said it . It just came out , as if a part of him had unlocked for that moment.
"Huh? Sir?" the cashier's voice sharpened. "Can't hear you well. There are other customers, sir—" The boy blinked hard. Reality clicked back.
"Three butter cakes," he said. His voice was steady and calm. Too calm. The cashier nodded and passed the tray.
"You can sit, sir."
He nodded, didn't respond, and walked to the far corner. A chair by the wall, partially hidden behind a support beam. It looked untouched. Like it had waited for someone who wouldn't talk much.
He sat. Head still low. He didn't look around—not even when he heard the clinks of glasses, or the cheers of children two tables away.
The first bite was soft. Sweet. But the taste no matter how comforting , couldn't take away the strange sense of disconnection gnawing at him. Above the boy, the TV with low volume flickered with a soap advertisement . One of the shop workers , wiping the counter , frowned at the screen .
"Ad again…" he muttered under his breath , reaching for the remote near the register .
With a causal press , the screen switched .
But instead of another random show , a news anchor's face appeared under a bold red ticker : BREAKING NEWS .
A female anchor's voice cut through the ambience, sharp yet composed:
" Karan Aroshi, son of Chief Minister Kavin Aroshi, has been officially announced as the party's chosen candidate to carry forward the legacy as Tamil Nadu's next Chief Minister. The leadership transition is scheduled for tomorrow in a Ceremonial event at Chennai Assembly Grounds. The decision, previously discussed in high-level meetings, is now final, marking a generational continuity in the Aroshi political dynasty."
Every table shifted. Elders whispered with raised eyebrows, some amused, others skeptical.
"Same story every time. From fathers to sons to grandsons…"
"Let's hope this one has some spine."
"Pff. Politics. Useless drama."
Even the teenagers in hoodies joked: "Bro, I bet my anime character has more leadership skills than these guys."
a man's voice rose suddenly from the table next to him – cutting across the chatters .
" Aroshi's the history changers , bro ! Look at them now-clueless leaders , still heirin' their own like it's some royal bloodline". Laughter followed .
The voices dropped again into conversations.
The boy flinched slightly because of the loudness from his strange sense of disconnection . Silence is a fragile thing . Loudness always breaks it.
A small casual glance because of the distraction . His eyes moved to the TV . A face . Karan aroshi .
It was a momentary distraction . Then he went back to chewing. No reaction. Not even a glance. He continued eating—slow, quiet bites. Disconnected. As though the world inside the shop and the world inside his head were two separate planets. After finishing, he walked to the counter.
"I've had three buns," he said, with the same polite tone.
"Yes sir. That'll be forty-five rupees. Fifteen each."
He had expected thirty. But he didn't flinch. No grimace, no second thoughts. Just handed over the amount, picked up his wallet again, clicked it shut, and walked out.
The evening air had cooled. A gentler breeze swept the dust on the roadside. Streetlights flickered as he took the narrower lane toward home. His hands dug into his jacket pockets, his breath misted slightly under the dimming sky.
His thoughts wandered—uninvited .
"Why did I say mom and dad there ? "
His steps slowed slightly.
"Tch," I thought I was done with that. "Why do the things I try to forget never leave me?"
His face hung low, eyes widened as he caught the shadow ahead of him on the walkway.
The moon cast it long—his own silhouette stretching out like a reminder of something he couldn't outrun. His chest felt heavy like something he couldn't leave behind .
He picked up the pace. Not quite running. Just faster. Jogging, almost.
The moon glowed above, bright and clear, while the surrounding street lamps flickered faintly. Dark and light held a strange balance, as if even the sky itself was undecided.
He reached home—ten minutes earlier than usual.
He pushed open the small creaky gate. It let out a familiar screech. That was enough for the owner to look up.
The old man sat on the front step in a wooden chair, a newspaper in hand. Age somewhere between 55 and 60. Not too fragile, not too strong. Just… settled.
"Hey, kid," the man said, his eyes squinting behind old glasses, folding the paper slowly.
The boy paused at the side of the path leading in, turned just enough to acknowledge.
The old man asked, "How was your day?"
The boy turned fully now. Just facing him. Voice flat .
"it was fine."
The owner let out a breath. A subtle, knowing smirk crossed his face.
"Ha. Thought so."
The boy turned again and walked toward the stairs.
But the man lingered on something. A pause. He looked down at his paper, then up again—like debating internally. The kind of expression that didn't move the face much, just flickered inside the eyes.
He cleared his throat.
"Hey… hey, kid. What about the rent? You were supposed to pay this week. It's already been a week." What a week over?"
The boy didn't break the stride. No reply . Just kept walking upstairs like the question hadn't landed.
The old man blinked slowly, raised his eye brows in surrender. He muttered to himself with a bitter chuckle:
"Hmph. These kids now… masters in silence. Know just how to kill a question with quiet."
He went back to his paper , but it doesn't seem as interesting anymore.
The boy stood before his door. Key in hand. Darkness inside waited—silent, still. Not hostile , but just… honest. He stepped in . Closed the door .
Click. Lock.
He turned on the light. A soft tube light lit up the room .
Bare walls. No frames. No photos. Nothing.
Just a single mattress beneath the window. A pillow. A worn-out bedsheet folded at one corner. The ceiling fan hung a little off-center—spanning lazily, indifferent to its own job.
To the side: a tiny restroom. Just enough space to wash away a day. To the left: a kitchen he rarely used. Not for lack of need, just lack of effort.
No nails. No photos on the wall . No marks left behind.
This wasn't home. It was just where he existed.
He walked to the mattress, pulled out his night dress from a small overhead cupboard. Changed clothes with the same silence that followed him everywhere. No sighs. No relief. Just routine. Same as the shop. Same as the street. Same as always.
He went to the restroom, splashed cold water on his face. Again. Again. As if trying to wipe off thoughts, not just dust.
He wiped with a towel, re-hung it on the same hook, came back to the mattress, and sat down.
He slowly laid back—staring at the ceiling. One arm resting on his forehead. The other reaches lazily toward a small tray box beside the mattress.
His fingers stopped midway. Like they knew what they were reaching for but didn't want to want it.
Still… he picked it up.
A photo .
His parents. Smiling. Standing side by side, looking directly into the camera. But it felt like they were looking at him.
He adjusted the frame, gently placing it upright on the floor. Then spoke. A soft , childlike voice.
"Hi Mom… hi Dad. I'm home." A quiet smile followed . Naive. Sweet.
"My day went well."
Pause. He smiled a little more but this time it was pure .
"I talked with strangers… met people.
I saw something cute on the way back. A baby was crying, like—'wah… wah…'"
He imitated the cry with a puffed-cheek grin.
"The baby was cute. His mom held him like…" He trailed off .
His voice caught just slightly. "You'd love to see it, wouldn't you, Mom? Just like I did?"
He stared at the floor for a moment. Then turned his gaze up again.
"Dad… tomorrow's Friday. Last work day for the week. Then again, Monday."
A quiet breath. His tone changed—just a notch deeper. More thoughtful.
"…Dad, did it feel strange… the first time you worked for your family?"
silence.
"I'm turning 19 in two weeks. Four days."
His voice shrank again. Softer now .
"Nineteen," he whispered.
He lay back fully, eyes fixed on the ceiling. His hand lifted the photo again. Stared a moment longer .
"Good night, Mom. Dad. I love you guys."
He flipped the frame. At the back, in faint handwriting:
"Love you so much , our beloved son "
He stared at the words for a moment too long. A small smile crept in. Not joy. Not sadness. Something in between.
Settle it down gently.
Then he ran both hands over his face, from chin to forehead. A long drag. Like wiping away the day.
He let out a quiet sigh.
Muttered to himself with a breath that barely escaped his throat.
"it will always be just another normal day."
The light hummed above.