The next morning, 8:00 AM
Om hadn't slept a moment.
He sat motionless at the window of his new room, eyes fixed on the empty garden below. In his right hand, he held a small, sealed urn—his grandfather's ashes. It rested gently in his palm, as if too sacred to grip tightly, too unbearable to let go.
His eyes were swollen and red. His face, pale and drawn, looked more like a mask than a boy's face.
"Grandpa… you really never wanted to tell me the truth, did you?" he thought. "The conditions you left behind… you knew I'd struggle with this weak body. Did you really think I could do it?"
Knock. Knock.
The silence shattered.
Om turned sluggishly toward the door.
"Om, if you're ready for school, I'll drop you off," came Raj's voice from the hallway.
Om carefully placed the urn on the table beside him and trudged to the door.
"Hello? Are you there?" Raj called again.
Om opened the door slowly.
"Wait 10 minutes," he said in a flat, lifeless voice. "I'm not ready."
Raj frowned, not hiding his concern. Om's expression was empty, distant.
"Hey, come on," Raj said gently but firmly. "Mr. Shiv didn't just give us a future—he gave us hope. The least you can do is try to hold yourself together. Look, I'll be in the parking lot. Your lunch is with me. We'll grab your bag on the way."
With a determined nod, Raj turned and briskly walked down the hallway.
Om blinked, still processing. "Wait… how are you going to drop me off now?"
But Raj was already gone. Om sighed internally. "Maybe he's right… I can't keep sitting here forever."
He turned back inside. For the first time in a while, a faint smile touched his lips.
.
.
.
.
An Unexpected Ride
A few minutes later…
Om arrived at the parking lot, only to find himself lost in a forest of armored vehicles.
The place looked like a military depot.
After wandering through the maze of machines, he finally heard Raj's voice in the distance and followed it.
"What… the hell?"
Om's eyes widened at the scene before him.
Raj was striking exaggerated poses atop the hood of a sleek, futuristic supercar. A massive man in a uniform—clearly military—was taking photos of him like a paparazzo on a fashion shoot.
"Mr. Raj… what are you doing?" Om asked, blinking in disbelief.
Raj hopped off the car, grinning. "Hey, Om! You like my new ride? Mr. Narad gifted it to me!"
Om tilted his head. "But... this looks extremely expensive. Why would he give you something like this?"
Raj continued posing for the camera without looking at him. "So I can take cool photos, obviously."
Om's mouth opened slightly. "...You can't drive it?"
"Nope. Don't even have a license."
"...And who's he?"
"This is Mr. Bhanu. Our new driver. He's hilarious."
Bhanu, a mountain of a man with a warm grin, gave Om a thumbs-up.
Om sighed. "...Right. So where's our actual ride?"
Raj pointed cheerfully toward an armored military vehicle. "There it is!"
Om stared. Then blinked.
"I thought Mr. Raj was supposed to be intelligent..." he thought, sighing internally.
Bhanu stepped forward and said with a smirk, "Climb in, young man. Time to roll."
After grabbing Om's school bag from his house, they dropped him off a short distance from the school gates. Om thanked them both with a nod and quietly made his way in.
.
.
.
.
A School Remembers
The School
Om's school was the only one in the entire country. With a population of barely 20,000, and few citizens even valuing formal education, a single institution was more than enough.
As Om crossed the main gate, a sudden announcement echoed through the loudspeakers:
[All teachers, students, and staff—please gather at the assembly ground immediately.]
Soon, nearly a thousand students stood in ordered rows, sorted by class. Teachers stood at the front, and the rest of the school staff lined up to the right. In front of them, a raised stage stood with a podium and microphone.
A man in his fifties, dressed in a simple grey suit, stepped onto the stage. The principal—Mr. Raghav. He approached the mic slowly.
"Good morning, everyone."
"Good morning, sir," the crowd responded in unison.
His expression turned solemn.
"Yesterday, we lost someone very dear to our hearts—Mr. Shiv."
All eyes turned, silently, to Om. He stood still, eyes fixed on the ground, unmoving.
"He was not just part of our institution. He was its spirit. Whenever we struggled, he was the first to act. His knowledge, his connections… even his silence held weight."
Many students had heard the stories—how all five great universities once tried to recruit Mr. Shiv. Some offered riches, some influence. He declined them all.
Wealthy families tried marrying into his legacy. Others offered positions of power. But he always said no.
He lived simply, stayed unmarried, and remained rooted to his people. Out of loyalty. Out of love.
As Mr. Raghav spoke, memories welled up in everyone present. Little by little, tears began to fall—quietly, respectfully.
The principal paused, wiped his tears with a handkerchief, then continued.
"I know we're all hurting. And the space he's left behind—in our school, in our lives—may never be filled. He wasn't just a man. He was our foundation."
He paused.
"For his soul to find peace, let us observe two minutes of silence."
A stillness fell over the grounds.
No whispers. No coughs. No birdsong. Only the sound of the breeze brushing through the trees.
Two minutes passed in absolute, sacred silence.
Then, with a quiet voice, the principal dismissed the assembly.
.
.
.
.
A Spark of Resolve
Om walked slowly toward his classroom, the weight of the principal's words settling over him. He thought of his grandfather's unwavering loyalty, his quiet refusal of power and fame. He remembered holding the urn that morning, his own weakness, and the impossible conditions of the will.
"Grandpa knew I'm not strong… So why give me conditions that only the strong can meet?"
"Unless… there's something more to it."
"I need to talk to Mr. Narad."