The park looked the same.
Same old creaky gate that needed oil. Same row of broken benches where the neighborhood uncles sat each evening, talking politics and pausing only to sip tea. Same two swings at the far end — one slightly higher than the other, its chain replaced long ago with a mismatched one that creaked with every sway.
It was where it happened.
Where my brother had fallen. Where he had left, limping, angry, hurt. Where none of us knew that was the last day he'd spend with us like that — with that carefree boyish grin, that laughter unspoiled by the bitterness that would come after.
But today… the swing was empty.
I'd reached the park earlier than I ever had in the past. I didn't even tell Mom I was leaving. I just ran — like I could outrun fate itself.
I stood by the bench where I once sat with a popsicle in hand, watching my brother scream with joy as he swung higher than anyone else dared. I could almost hear him now, calling out, "Look, bhaiya! Look how high!"
But he wasn't here.
Not yet.
My hands curled into fists.
I was here. I had made it. I remembered this moment. The fight was supposed to happen around 5:45. The swing would jerk, his hands would slip, and he would fall, hit his arm — not too bad — but enough to keep him away from home just long enough that everything else would start unraveling.
If I could stop this, maybe I could fix the rest.
I waited. And waited.
Time slowed like syrup, every second stretching longer than the last.
A child ran past me, giggling. A mother shouted after him. Two teenagers flirted loudly by the see-saw. But the swing stayed still.
5:30.
5:40.
5:45.
Still no sign.
Panic crawled into my chest. What if he wasn't coming?
What if I was too early… or too late?
I stood, pacing now, scanning every turn, every gate, every sound.
Then — a voice.
"Rishi!"
I turned. There he was.
My brother. Eight years younger than me now, but still the same wide-eyed kid I used to tease and protect. He ran toward me, panting, wearing his school shirt half-untucked, and smiling like nothing bad could ever touch him.
"I thought you weren't coming!" he said.
"I thought you weren't," I said, my voice tight.
He laughed and jumped onto the swing, pumping his legs. "Race me to the top?"
I watched the chain jerk. That sound. That tiny snap — it was coming. My body moved before my mind could catch up.
"Wait!" I called out.
He looked confused. "What?"
"Get off for a second. I think… the swing's broken."
He frowned. "What are you talking about? It's fine."
"I'm serious. Please."
He paused. Something in my voice — or maybe the look on my face — made him stop.
He hopped off, and I pulled at the chain.
Snap.
The link broke in my hand.
Had he still been swinging…
He stared, stunned. I swallowed hard, trying to hold back the flood inside me.
"You okay?" he asked, small and unsure.
I crouched beside him, pulled him into a hug. "Yeah. Now I am."
He didn't understand why I hugged him so tight.
And I didn't explain.
Some things… you don't explain.
You just protect.
Even if they'll never know what you saved them from.