In a dimly lit room a boy sat on the cold floor, his back pressed against the wall, his legs pulled close to his chest.
The dim light from the bulb glowed weakly above his head, creating a long shadow across him.
His white eyes, dull and hollow, stared at the empty bed in front of him.
On that bed lay a pillow and a neatly folded blanket. Once occupied and used to provide a comfortable rest.
Now empty.
Toys lay scattered near the bed — a small doll, puzzles and a school bag half open with crayons spilled out. None of them moved. None of them made a sound.
They stayed still just like Shiv's hollow eyes, swollen with dark circles from countless sleepless nights and crying. He stared at it. His lips trembled, but no sound came out.
He had cried for two weeks — and still, it felt like he hadn't cried enough.
In his trembling hands was a small picture.
A little girl with chubby cheeks and a smile so wide it could have lit the entire room.
Her eyes — bright, curious, alive — looked up at the boy standing beside her in the picture.
Shiv's thumb gently brushed across her face.
"Usha…" he whispered, his voice raw and cracked.
He closed his eyes, and memories came rushing — uninvited, some happy and some cruel.
The small thump of her running steps across the hall.
The tug on his sleeve when she wanted to be picked up.
The sound of her laughter when he pretended to be a monster chasing her around the house.
And her tiny arms wrapping around his neck, whispering, "Bhaiya, don't leave me, okay?" when she had nightmares.
He remembered promising her.
He remembered smiling.
He remembered believing he could protect her from everything — the taunts, the hatred, the coldness of the world which he had faced.
But that promise — like everything else in his life — had shattered in blood and rain.
He shut his eyes tightly, but the memories wouldn't stop. They came like waves — warm moments colliding with the sharp, unbearable image of that night.
The sirens.
The flashing lights.
The smell of blood and rain mixing together.
The crowd standing in the street.
The whispers.
And then — the small arm, pale, motionless, lying on the ground.
He had held that same hand once, warm and soft, when she crossed the road for the first time.
Now, the hand he once held was gone.
He had dropped to his knees that night.
He remembered the taste of mud and tears, the weight in his chest, the scream that tore through his throat until it turned silent.
Since then he hadn't been the same.
Now, two weeks later, he sat surrounded by her things — her tiny, vanished world.
He pressed the photo to his chest, his breath hitching.
A sound escaped him — a sob breaking into a hoarse scream — and he crumpled forward, tears soaking the floor.
"I couldn't keep you safe, Usha," he choked. "I failed you… I failed Mother… I failed everyone."
The words dissolved into quiet, broken breaths.
Outside, life went on — but in this room, time had stopped.
He laughed weakly, a sound without joy. "Maybe they were right all along… Maybe I am cursed."
His shoulders trembled. "Maybe this is what I deserve."
He looked around — the bed, the toys, the empty slippers by the side — and every corner screamed her absence.
"Do you remember," he whispered, "how you'd run toward the door when I came home late from school?
You'd hug my legs with your tiny hands and shout, 'Bhaiya! You're late!' — your face all worried when you saw the bruises on me."
He smiled faintly, then broke again.
"There's no one waiting now. Just silence."
He pressed the photo to his chest, hugging it tightly. "Why her?" he whispered. "Why not me? Why did it have to be her?"
He clenched his fist, nails digging in his palm, and he slammed his fist on the floor. The sound echoed in the empty room, drowned only by labored breath.
"I promised you I'd keep you safe," he whispered, clutching his hair. "I promised Mother I'd never let anything happen to you… and I couldn't."
He raised his head slowly, eyes empty. "Oh God!" he screamed. "What have I done to deserve all of this? Why? Why are the people dear to me taken by the world?"
"What punishment has been given to me?"
"What have I done wrong?"
"Maybe I deserve the pain."
"Maybe I deserve the hate."
"But you do not, Usha."
The photo in his lap smiled up at him — her bright, unbroken joy mocking the ruins of his world.
"You were my light, Usha," he murmured. "And now that light's gone."
For a moment, he thought he saw her — standing in the doorway, smiling.
His lips moved, a whisper slipping out. "Usha…"
But the vision faded, leaving only the quiet breaths of his.
He crawled to her bed and sat beside it. The faint scent of her hair oil still lingered on the pillow.
He touched it softly. "You always said you wanted to be a doctor someday, so that you could treat me…"
He stared down. "Now you never will."
He pressed his face into the pillow and wept until the tears ran dry.
He didn't care how he looked — grief had stripped him of everything.
When he finally lifted his head, the dawn was breaking faintly outside.
The rain slowed to a whisper.
His gaze drifted to the small shrine near the window — their mother's photo, the flower long since wilted.
He folded his hands.
"I broke my promise, Ma," he said quietly. "You must hate me too."
The silence that followed was complete.
He sat there for a long time, the photo of Usha in his lap, his heartbeat slow and heavy.
"I'll live with this now," he whispered finally. "Because that's what she'd want, right?"
A tear traced down his cheek. "I'll find out who killed you.
I will give them a million times greater pain than you went through and kill them with my own hands.
No matter what I have to do.
No matter how far I have to go.
No matter how strong and powerful they are."
He leaned back against the wall, his eyes fixed on the window.
The first light of morning spilled across the floor, faint and gray.
For the first time in two weeks, the tears stopped — not because the pain had eased, but because there was nothing left to cry.
The photo rested in his lap, Usha's smile unbroken by the world's cruelty.
"Sleep well, Usha," he said softly. "Wherever you are… sleep well."
Author note:
With this chapter, the prologue comes to an end.
I've tried to shape Shiv's character — showing how the world treats him, the weight he carries inside, and the emotions that drive him forward. Beneath it all, I've also hinted at the mysteries quietly lurking in the shadows, waiting to unfold.
I'd really like to know what you think of the story so far — how Shiv's journey feels to you and whether his pain, world, and struggles come through the way I intended.