The bus smelled faintly of diesel and damp earth as it rattled along the winding road. My forehead rested against the cool glass of the window, but my eyes weren't fixed on the blur of trees outside. I was watching my father's reflection in the glass. He sat across the aisle, one hand gripping the edge of the seat as though he could steady the entire bus if it swayed too much.
He had always been a cautious man, yet tonight, there was something sharper in his silence, something that unsettled me. His eyes weren't resting on the road like they usually did during our trips—they kept shifting toward my mother and my two younger sisters, as if memorizing every detail of their faces.
"Lakshmi," he said softly, noticing me watching him. His voice cracked in a way that made my stomach clench. "You're quiet tonight."
I smiled faintly, though it felt forced. "I'm just tired, Papa. It's been a long week."
He nodded, but his gaze didn't leave me. He looked as though he wanted to say something else, but he swallowed it back and turned to adjust the blanket around my sisters, who had dozed off against our mother's shoulder.
The bus jolted over a pothole, and I grabbed the edge of the seat in front of me. My mother chuckled softly, trying to ease the tension. "It's just the road, don't frown so much, Arjun. We'll reach safely."
But my father didn't laugh. His knuckles whitened against the seat. I could almost hear his unspoken words: What if we don't?
I shivered, hugging my shawl tighter around myself. Maybe I was just imagining it. Maybe it was only the late-night chill, or maybe the shadows of the forest pressing close to the road made me uneasy. Still, a voice inside me whispered: Something is coming. Something I can't stop.
I closed my eyes and prayed silently, the way I always did whenever fear crept into my chest. But when I opened them again, I noticed my father looking directly at me, his lips moving in a prayer of his own.
---
The driver pushed the bus faster as thunder rolled across the sky. Lightning split the darkness, illuminating the frightened faces of a few passengers who crossed themselves, clutched amulets, or whispered hurried mantras.
I leaned closer to my father. "Papa, are you alright?"
His hand covered mine, rough and warm. "Lakshmi… if anything ever happens—"
"Don't say that," I interrupted, my heart tightening. "Nothing will happen."
But his eyes told me he didn't believe that.
---
Minutes later, the rain began—at first a drizzle tapping against the windows, then a heavy downpour that blurred the road ahead. The wipers screeched, fighting against the storm. My sisters stirred in their sleep, whimpering, and my mother soothed them.
The bus tilted slightly as it rounded a sharp bend. My stomach lurched. I clutched the edge of the seat, whispering a prayer again.
And then it happened.
A blinding flash of light.
A deafening screech of tires.
The scream of twisting metal.
The bus skidded, veering violently to the side. People screamed. Luggage crashed from the overhead racks. My mother pulled my sisters into her arms, shielding them. My father's hand shoved me hard against the seat, his voice shouting my name—but the roar of the accident swallowed everything.
We hit something—hard. My body slammed forward, pain ripping through my shoulder. Glass shattered around me like falling stars.
And then—darkness.
---
When I opened my eyes, everything was blurred and muffled. Smoke filled the air. Someone was crying—a child's wail pierced the silence. My head throbbed, my vision spun, but I forced myself to sit up.
Bodies were sprawled across the aisle, groaning, some terrifyingly still. The smell of blood and burning rubber suffocated me.
"Papa?" I croaked, my throat raw.
Through the haze, I saw him. My father lay near the front, his chest heaving with shallow breaths, blood streaking down his temple. My legs trembled as I crawled toward him, broken glass cutting into my palms.
"Papa! Hold on, I'll get help!" My voice shook.
His hand weakly gripped mine. "No… listen to me, Lakshmi." His eyes locked onto mine with a desperate intensity I had never seen before. "Promise me—you will take care of your sisters. Promise me you will live, no matter what."
Tears blurred my vision. "Don't talk like that! You'll be fine—we'll all be fine!"
But he shook his head faintly. His voice was ragged, every word a struggle. "I made a vow… if I couldn't be here, my brother would ensure your marriage… you'll be safe… respected. You must trust him."
My heart shattered. "Papa, please—don't leave us!"
He squeezed my hand one last time, his lips forming words I could barely hear over the chaos: "You are stronger than you know."
Then his hand fell limp. His chest stilled.
I froze, the world collapsing around me. The storm outside raged on, but inside me, everything went silent.
---
"Lakshmi!" My mother's scream yanked me back. I turned—she was clutching my sisters, her face pale with terror. The bus creaked dangerously, one side tilted over the edge of a steep cliff.
Passengers were scrambling to the exit, pushing, shoving, some leaping out into the muddy road.
My mother's eyes met mine, wide with fear. "We have to get out!"
I tried to stand, but pain shot through my leg, nearly buckling me. I clung to the seat, dragging myself toward them.
The bus groaned again, tilting further. Screams filled the night. My sisters cried out, terrified.
I reached for them, my fingers brushing theirs—
And then, with a horrifying crack, the bus lurched violently, the cliffside giving way beneath its weight.
Everything plunged into chaos.
And in that moment, as the ground seemed to vanish beneath us, I realized—this was only the beginning of my misfortune.