The school was bustling with noise and movement as students rushed out of their classrooms, heading home.
A boy with a lean build, dark hair, and deep-set eyes walked toward the old man from earlier — his grandfather. His name was Om, and he was one of the fifty selected students.
"Grandpa, let's go," he said softly.
The old man smiled. "My son, I was hoping you'd ask or at least answer something during class. But you always remain silent. Why?"
"Grandpa," Om replied with a smirk, "we can play question-answer games at home too. I'm just giving others the opportunity to broaden their horizons."
Nearby, four students — two boys and two girls — overheard the conversation. One of the boys, with sharp brown eyes, scoffed arrogantly.
"Giving others the opportunity? Pfft. The only reason he's one of the fifty chosen is his grandpa."
Om's face turned pale. His eyes dropped to the ground.
His grandfather placed a gentle hand on his head. "Kids, take care. Goodbye."
The group respectfully bowed to the elder as he walked away, though their murmurs continued.
"He's lucky to have a grandpa like him. At that age, most men retire and enjoy peace. But he's still taking care of his grandson."
"Ronnie, stop it," one of the girls snapped.
"You always pick on Om."
Ronnie, unfazed, raised his voice. "Why should I stop? That spot could've gone to my brother — not this weakling. Everyone knows Om can't even carry his school bag properly!"
"Just shut up, Ronnie!" the girl hissed, grabbing his arm and dragging him away.
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Evening.
Om and his grandfather sat at the dinner table, food laid out neatly before them. As always, they performed a quiet prayer before eating. But tonight, Om ate slower than usual. His thoughts were elsewhere.
"Are you troubled by Ronnie's words?" Professor Shiv asked gently.
Om murmured, almost too softly to hear, "I'm not troubled by his words... but by your silence."
His grandfather heard the words — but said nothing.
After dinner, both retreated to their rooms.
Om closed his door behind him and leaned against it. Pain clung to his voice as he whispered to the empty room:
"Why, Grandpa? Why don't you ever tell me about myself? Why am I so weak? Where are my parents?
I've tried everything to make you proud... but your silence always makes me suffer."
Unbeknownst to Om, his grandfather stood silently just outside the door, having heard every word.
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The Next Morning.
The sun blazed brightly. Fresh snow on rooftops shimmered like a sea of clouds. Inside Om's room, sunlight poured through the window, waking him abruptly.
"Ugh... why is my room so bright today?" he groaned, squinting.
Suddenly, he sat up. "Wait—what time is it?!"
He snatched his phone from the table — a sleek, transparent, candy-bar-shaped device.
"It's already 9?! Why hasn't Grandpa woken me up yet?!"
Panic set in.
He dashed into the bathroom, brushed his teeth in seconds, bathed, changed clothes, and bolted to the dining table.
But something was wrong.
There was no breakfast. No sign of Grandpa.
Confused, Om shouted, "Grandpa! Are you in your room?!"
No reply.
He ran to his grandfather's room and knocked several times — still no response. Panic turned to fear.
He tried the door. Locked. From the inside.
With trembling limbs, Om backed up, then ran at the door, slamming his shoulder against it.
A searing pain shot through his left arm, and with a sickening pop, his shoulder dislocated. He fell to his knees, a cry of pain escaping his lips as he clutched his now-useless arm. The room spun as a wave of cold terror washed over him.
"No... I need to do something... I need help... Neighbors—yes!"
Using the wall for support, Om struggled to his feet. Every move was a fresh spike of pain, but the terror was greater. He stumbled out into the empty street and shouted,
"Help! Someone! Please help!"
But it was early. Most people were already at work or inside doing chores. The street was deserted.
He ran — or tried to — to the nearest house.
He collapsed against the door with a loud thud.
From inside, a voice responded, "Who's there?!"
Footsteps approached.
Click. The door unlocked. Creak. It slowly opened.
A man in his mid-thirties — wearing square glasses, a black T-shirt, grey pants, and flip-flops — appeared. He looked a little ruffled, as if he'd just been woken up.
"Who knocked—?" he started, squinting. "Om? Are you alright? You're white as a sheet!"
Om tried to speak. "Mr. Raj… Grandpa… my grandpa—" and his legs finally gave out. He passed out against the man's doorframe.
"Wait, what?! What happened to your grandpa?! Hey! Wake up!"
Raj panicked. Looking around, he saw no one to call for help. He carried Om inside and sprinkled water on his face.
Om's eyes flickered open. Raj handed him a glass of water.
"Here, drink. What's going on?"
Om sipped — then dropped the glass.
Grabbing Raj's arm tightly, he pleaded, "Mr. Raj! Please come with me!"
"Whoa, whoa — kid! Your arm! What happened?"
"Grandpa's room is locked from the inside and he's not responding!"
"You two should've been at school already..." Raj muttered, his brow furrowed with concern.
Tears streamed down Om's face. His nose dripped.
"Mr. Raj... Every morning, Grandpa wakes me up. But today he didn't. I knocked, shouted... he didn't respond. I tried everything — the door won't open."
"Alright. Don't worry. Come on."
Raj lifted Om onto his back and ran toward their house.
He tried the door. Locked, just like Om said.
"Stand back, Om."
With one hard kick, the door flew open.
What they saw inside drained the color from their faces.
Shiv — Om's grandfather — lay unconscious beside his bed.
"Mr. Shiv! Wake up!" Raj cried.
"Grandpa! Please! Wake up!" Om wailed.
Raj knelt down and, with a trained hand, touched Shiv's neck. He froze.
His body was cold. No breath. No heartbeat.
"Mr. Shiv... no. Teacher… Grandpa…"
Tears welled up in Raj's eyes. He went silent.
"Mr. Raj...? What's wrong? Why are you crying?"
Raj didn't answer.