The monsoon clouds hung heavy above the city, but inside the campus courtyard, life buzzed as usual. Students rushed between classes, their laughter mixing with the soft drizzle in the air.
Dev adjusted the strap of his worn-out backpack as he walked out of the lecture hall. At sixteen, almost seventeen, he didn't look any different from the others around him—except maybe the quiet focus in his eyes. He was the kind of boy who noticed small details, the kind who would remember if you changed your handwriting or skipped your lunch.
"Dev!"
Shubham jogged up beside him, his textbooks hugged against his chest. His energy was always a stark contrast to Dev's calm demeanor.
"You didn't even wait! Some best friend you are."
Dev smirked. "If I wait for you every day, we'll never graduate."
Before Shubham could retort, another voice called out.
"Both of you always fight like an old married couple."
Laxmi fell into step with them, her umbrella shielding all three. She had that teasing smile—the kind that softened the weight of any day.
"Don't say that," Shubham muttered, pretending to be annoyed. "Next thing you know, people will start rumors."
Dev chuckled, but his phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at the screen—Professor Singh. For a moment, warmth filled his expression.
Singh wasn't just a guardian; he was family. A man of wisdom, with spectacles that always slid down his nose and books piled high on every corner of their house. He was an archaeologist, a seeker of the past, and in Dev's heart, a father he never had.
Dev answered. "Professor?"
Silence. Just a faint crackle, as though the call connected but no one spoke. Then—click. The line went dead.
Dev frowned. "Strange…"
"Who was it?" Laxmi asked.
"Singh sir," Dev replied, pocketing his phone. "But… he didn't say anything."
Shubham shrugged. "Probably busy digging through his antiques again."
They laughed it off, but a sliver of unease lodged itself in Dev's chest.
That evening, the drizzle had turned into a steady rain. Dev pushed open the gate to the house he shared with Professor Singh. Normally, a soft yellow glow leaked out from the windows, and the faint hum of classical music filled the hallway. Today, silence swallowed the house whole.
It wasn't the peaceful kind of silence—it was cold. Heavy.
"Professor Singh?" Dev called out, his voice echoing down the corridor. No answer.
He stepped inside. The air felt wrong, thick, as though the house itself was holding its breath. His footsteps carried him toward Singh's room, his pulse rising with every step.
The door creaked open.
Professor Singh lay on the bed, motionless. Eyes closed. A glass of water tipped over at the bedside table. There were no wounds, no signs of pain—just… stillness.
Dev's throat closed up. His mind refused to process what his eyes were screaming.
"No… no, no, no."
His hands shook as he fumbled for his phone. He barely managed to dial Shubham.
"Come… now… please—just come!" His voice cracked.
Minutes blurred into seconds. By the time Shubham and Laxmi rushed in, Dev was kneeling by the bedside, his face buried in his hands.
The ambulance came. The doctors checked. And in a sterile hospital room, the final verdict was given.
"No disease, no struggle, no heart failure," the doctor said, baffled. "It's as if… his life just ended."
Dev didn't speak. His world had already collapsed into silence.
Later, as the ashes of Professor Singh sank into the Ganga, Dev's mind replayed the last words Singh had told him just yesterday:
"Life can change in a second, Dev. Always be ready."
Now, standing by the riverside, Dev whispered them back, his voice breaking:
"A second too late…"