There was no sound. No light. Just falling.
His body floated in a void — no pain now, no weight. His thoughts unraveled slowly, drifting like ash in the wind.
Was that it?
He thought about his childhood. His mother's calloused hands. The quiet warmth of his father's evening stories. He remembered getting bullied in school, never fighting back. Always avoiding confrontation. Always hoping someone would help.
No one ever did.
He thought about love. How he had never really felt it. His wife… she had been beautiful, yes. But cold. Distant. Their marriage was a transaction, forced by relatives. He had hoped she would open up. That she would see the real him one day. But she never looked his way — not truly.
He never even kissed her.
He had waited. Waited for affection, waited for intimacy, waited for someone to choose him.
They never did.
He had lived a life of silence. A life of compromise. Never great enough to be praised. Never evil enough to be hated. Just forgettable. Gray.
He wanted to curse. To scream. But there was nothing left in him.
Just…
Why?
Why was I even born if it was all meant to be like this?
The void pulsed.
Then, warmth.
A soft light flickered at his hand — the ring. The same silver band he had worn for years. It glowed now, soft and rhythmic, like a heartbeat. He felt it — a pulse not his own. Something ancient. Something watching.
And then… a whisper. Not in words, but in feeling.
"You have been chosen."
.
.
.
The sky wore mourning robes of gray as the first drops of rain began to fall—soft, misty tears from the heavens, as if the world itself wished to offer a farewell. The small graveyard tucked behind the city's southern hill was filled with a surprising number of people, more than one might expect for a man whose life had been lived quietly, even invisibly. A man who, in death, finally drew a crowd.
Among the gathered, some faces stood out not for the grief they bore, but for the secrets they carried.
His wife stood near the front, dressed in a black saree that hugged her frame like an elegant lie. Her face was a mask of solemnity, the kind that fools many but not all. Her hands clutched a white flower bouquet, trembling just enough to seem mournful. But those who knew her—truly knew her—could see something behind her eyes. Not loss. Not sadness. Relief, perhaps. Freedom.
Beside her stood her friend, a young man with fair skin and a confident smirk barely hidden behind lowered eyes. No one seemed to question why he stayed so close to her, why his hand occasionally brushed hers as if rehearsed. Only those with sharp eyes and bitter memories might have recognized him. He was the one the dead man saw last—through the crack in a half-open bedroom door, bathed in betrayal.
The man's former best friend, a lanky figure with round glasses and an easy smile, hovered near the back. He looked the part of a grieving friend—quiet, head bowed. But there was no tremble in his fingers, no tightness in his jaw. Only a strange calmness, almost as if he was waiting for the whole show to be over.
Then there was the boss—a well-built, middle-aged man with trimmed hair and a sharp suit that seemed too expensive for the occasion. He sat in silence, a cigarette dangling from his fingers despite the gentle rain. Every few moments, he glanced at his phone, barely hiding the impatience. Perhaps the only real loss he felt was the absence of a quiet, obedient employee. The man had died like he had lived—silently, unremarkably.
Next to the boss stood his wife, a beautiful woman with long, dark curls, red lipstick, and eyes that surveyed the room like an empress. She wore black too, but in a way that made it clear she was mourning fashion more than any man in the ground. She cried, yes—but only after checking who was watching.
As the ceremony ended, the crowd began to thin. A few coworkers came and left, offering brief condolences and shaking their heads with comments like "Such a quiet man…" or "Didn't deserve that kind of end."
None of them truly knew him. None had looked past his silent demeanor. He was the office ghost. The background soul. No one remembered his birthday. No one asked why he always ate lunch alone.
And now he was dead.
Back at his apartment—a small, neat home he'd kept tidy all his life—unspoken things stirred.
The boss was the first to arrive, his coat dripping rainwater onto the polished floor. He muttered something about needing a moment of quiet. No one stopped him as he sank into the living room couch, lit another cigarette, and closed his eyes. The dead man's scent still lingered in the apartment, a mix of cheap aftershave, coffee, and loneliness. The boss seemed unmoved.
From the closed bathroom door came muffled sounds—soft at first, rhythmic. It wasn't long before the noises grew louder. Anyone passing might pause, raise an eyebrow, and move on. It didn't take much imagination to guess. A woman's low gasps, a man's stifled moans. Someone said it was the boss's wife and someone else. Few cared to know who.
The dead man's spirit, if it had lingered, would have watched in hollow silence.
In the bedroom—the room he once called his sanctuary—the door was closed. But not for long.
The boss rose from the couch and wandered to the hallway, cigarette still in hand. Something drew him forward. Some curiosity or twisted instinct. The door creaked open slightly beneath his fingers, revealing a familiar scene.
The wife. His wife. On the bed she once shared with the man now buried under rain and mud. She wasn't alone. Her moans, soft and musical, filled the air. The same boy from before—the one the man saw that night—was with her again.
They didn't notice the door open at first.
But when they did, they froze.
For a moment, time stood still.
Then the boss stepped in, eyes scanning the room. No words were exchanged at first. Only silence. The boy looked panicked, trying to cover up. The woman gasped, clutching the sheets to her chest. Her face turned pale.
The boss didn't speak. He closed the door behind him.
From the hallway, only sounds could be heard. A soft gasp. A low murmur. Then another voice—hers—half-resisting, half-inviting. Eventually, the boy protested. Then, nothing but heavy breathing and muffled words. Perhaps it was wrong. Perhaps it was exactly what they wanted.
And outside that door, in the living room, the world continued to spin.
A photo still sat on the shelf near the window. A picture of the man, smiling awkwardly at a work event. No one glanced at it. No one remembered that smile or wondered what it had masked.
Up above, the sky finally cleared. But inside, in the home that once belonged to a man who only wanted a little love, a little respect—there was no sunshine.
No memory of him lingered in that moment.
Only betrayal.
[Do you want to continue the story?]
[Do you want to pause the story?]
Aarav, "Pause for now."