"He knelt beside the body one last time,
not to grieve,
but to let go.
No words were spoken.
No ritual was required.
The silence was the offering.
And in that stillness,
the world held its breath.
I reached out —
not with hands,
but with will,
and called.
Not loudly.
A whisper was enough.
The soul remembered the way.
They always do.
The earth did not shake.
The skies did not sing.
No divine light split the heavens.
Only breath —
soft and ragged —
returned to empty lungs.
Fingers twitched.
Eyes fluttered.
And the boy,
now the bearer,
took a step back.
His brother rose,
blinking at a world he did not know.
A name lingered at the edge of his mind,
one he could no longer grasp.
The boy smiled through breaking eyes.
And said nothing.
Because memory…
was now his burden alone.
Together,
we stepped forward —
past the bones of the dead world,
past the flickering remnants of a broken sky,
and into the next.
Another world.
Another chance.
Another cycle....
And then I paused.
Turned.
Looked not at them —
but at you.
"Ah…, fine Master.
That's enough for today, I suppose.
It's now time to wake up."
—
The boy gasped and sat up in bed,
drenched in sweat,
the echo of ashes still lingering in his lungs.
"Come on, sleepyhead!"
his mother called from downstairs.
"You'll be late for school!"
He sat in bed for a moment longer,staring at the dust dancing in the light.
He couldn't remember what he'd dreamt.
But his heart achedin a way he didn't understand...
"Coomminnggg..."
"Don't forget to take your Practical file!"
"Okayy…"
Grumbling, he got up from the bed,rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he shuffled toward the sink.He started brushing his teeth,one hand on the toothbrush,the other fumbling with zippers and notebooks,stuffing his bag in the same half-awake, last-minute panic he went through every morning.
A pencil case clattered to the floor.A math worksheet — slightly damp from being under his pillow — got crumpled in haste.He didn't care.
Somewhere downstairs, utensils clinked and the kettle whistled.
The day was already moving,and he was just trying to catch up.
Checking his routine he realised he had consecutive physics classses for 2 whole hours, today was going to be a long day...
He threw on his school uniform —blue shirt, navy trousers, stiff collar still a little damp from ironing.The tie hung loose around his neck as he ran a hand through his hair,eyes still half-shut.
Bag on one shoulder, he trudged downstairs.
His mother was already packing lunch at the table, a speaker murmuring some old Hindi song in the background.
"Eat fast," she said without looking up, "Your father has to open the store after dropping you off."
The ride to school passed in a daze.
He sat behind his father on the bike, arms loosely around his waist,the early morning wind tugging at his hair and shirt.
His eyes were half-shut, the hum of the engine and the rhythm of the roadblending into the last traces of sleep.
His father was humming — softly, under his breath.Same old tune from the speaker, half-forgotten but warm.The kind that lingered in memory more as feeling than melody.
They passed narrow lanes still waking up,tea stalls steaming, dogs stretching in corners,the city slowly stirring to life.
At a red light, the humming stopped just for a second.A garland vendor approached. His father waved him off with a nodand resumed the song, just a little louder this time.It wasn't for anyone else. Just habit. Or comfort.
As they reached the school gate, the usual morning mess unfolded —uniformed kids rushing in, friends yelling across the street,parents shouting over engines.
"You have your file?" his father asked over his shoulder.
"Yeah."
"Alright. Get going. Bell's about to ring."
The boy hopped off, adjusted his bag,and with a short wave, disappeared into the crowd.
His father lingered for a moment longer,still humming, before riding off into the morning traffic.
The school gate swallowed children like a living thing — restless, roaring, always hungry for more. It was funny how the same chaos every morning somehow became routine.
Even among a thousand lively faces, all shining like baubles in the bright daylight, he seemed to be searching for something else entirely — flitting around, as if half-expecting a shadow to jump him.
And then, suddenly, a beast far worse than any shadow did.
It tackled him from behind, taking him completely by surprise — a beast often known to the world (and unfortunately to him) as his best friend.
"You seriously need to be more aware of your surroundings, dude!" the beast cackled. "Could've been a lunatic serial eye-snatcher or even turbo granny!"
He groaned, steadying himself as his bag nearly slipped off — but not before he jabbed a knee backward, square into the attacker's thigh.
"OW—! Bloody hell, man!" his friend yelped, stumbling back. "What was that for?!"
"You keep pouncing on me like some cartoon ghoul, you're gonna keep getting kneed," he muttered, brushing down his uniform.
"And yet I regret nothing," his friend grinned, rubbing his leg. "Though next time, maybe aim a little less near the family jewels, yeah?"
The two of them fell into step, weaving through the tide of students pouring through the school gates. His friend slung an arm over his shoulder as if the ambush hadn't just happened.
"You were spaced out again. What was it this time? A dream? The apocalypse?"
He rolled his eyes. "It was nothing. Just... zoned out."
"Well, boring. Next time, at least pretend you were in a secret mission or something."
They climbed the stairs two at a time, dodging juniors, half-fallen water bottles, and a kid dragging a cardboard model that had already started to fall apart.
"Physics double period," he muttered, looking at the timetable scribbled in his diary.
"Same. Room 12-B," his friend replied, blowing an imaginary trumpet. "Let the brain rot commence!"
They reached their classroom — a familiar mix of broken desks, scratched windows, and that one fan that made a grinding noise when it turned. Their classmates were already inside, some copying homework, others half-asleep.
The bell rang.
They shuffled into the classroom, dodging backpacks and yawns, sliding into their usual seats by the window.
"So," he said, pulling out his physics textbook like it was a dead rat, "you were telling me about that e-book... BITE, right? The one with the guy journaling through the apocalypse?"
His friend lit up. "Yeah, yeah! BITE: A Record of the Apocalypse. It's like… the guy starts out just trying to survive, right? But the more he writes, the more you see how the world falling apart kinda strips him down. Like, not just physically—mentally too."
He nodded slowly. "You said it's written like a diary?"
"Exactly. No chapters. Just raw entries. Like you're reading his brain unfiltered. And at first, it's all about food and safety, but then it becomes more about guilt… loneliness… what's even worth saving."
There was a pause.
He looked out the window at the kids running in late.
"Sounds more real than half the history we read."
His friend laughed. "More relevant too. The guy's not special. He's not brave. He just keeps walking. Even when everything tells him to stop. Just to save his Family of friends."
He paused, slinging his bag onto the desk."By the way… who wrote it?"
The friend grinned. "It first showed up under the pseudonym Elysian Echo, but now it's under the name Lord Abhinandan."He leaned in slightly, voice dropping with a trace of awe."And get this—he's about our age. Maybe a year older. Can you imagine writing something like that before even graduating?"
His friend gave a low whistle, clearly impressed.
"No way… and here I am struggling to write a three-page essay on electromagnetic induction."
A voice cut through the buzz of the classroom like a hot knife through butter.
"Which you wouldn't have, Abinash," came the dry, amused tone, "if you had bothered to read my notes instead of romanticising the end of the world."
Both boys turned in their seats, startled.
Mr. Chakraborty stood at the front, already halfway through scribbling diagrams on the board, sleeves rolled up, and a smirk playing on his face.
"And you too, Mrityunjay," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "Maybe if you spent less time with zombies and more with zero potential, you'd stop failing surprise tests."
The class chuckled.
"Don't get me wrong," he added, spinning the marker between his fingers like a wand, "I love fiction. But the only apocalypse you two should be worried about is the one I unleash during your pre-boards."
He turned back to the board. "Now, open your notebooks. Today we dance with Kirchhoff."
Mrityunjay whispered, "He's in a good mood. That's more terrifying."
Abinash grinned. "Shh. Before he assigns a viva on Ohm's Law in alphabetical order."
The chalk squeaked as Mr. Chakravarty launched into a detailed circuit diagram. Around them, pens scratched against paper, fans hummed lazily, and the morning sun cast angled shadows through the window grills.
Abinash's eyes drifted.
Outside, the school grounds shimmered in the heat, dust dancing in slow spirals above the basketball court. Beyond the boundary wall, the world stretched—endless, alive, and unknown.
"Hey," he muttered, still staring out.
Mrityunjay looked up from his notes.
"Do you ever… I dunno, wish the world actually was like that?" Abinash asked. "Like in the book?"
Mrityunjay blinked, following his gaze. "You mean full of death and running for your life?"
"No," Abinash said quietly. "I mean… like everything mattered. Every step. Every choice. Like it all meant something."
Mrityunjay didn't answer right away.
Behind them, the chalk tapped twice against the board. "Eyes here, gentlemen," Mr. Chakravarty said, though his tone was more fond than strict.
Abinash turned back around, but his mind lingered somewhere else—on cracked roads, on silence between trees, on a boy who kept walking.
And the dust outside kept dancing.Just like in his dream.