From Detroit, I returned to London, the city I called home. Its rhythm of rain and rush-hour suited me better than I admitted — though, truthfully, I was rarely there long enough to enjoy it. My work as an auditor and forensic investigator kept me constantly in motion: tense meetings in Dubai, late nights in Singapore, interrogations in New York. Airports were my second homes, hotel rooms my temporary sanctuaries.
On the surface, it looked enviable. But behind the professional sheen was a storm. My marriage — once hopeful — had soured into a prison of silence and sharp words. It was, in truth, a marriage from hell. Out of that darkness came my son, Arav, my one untainted blessing. Fiercely protective, spirited, and sharp, he became my anchor in a world that demanded too much. Yet his presence also reminded me why my heart had locked itself away. Trust, for me, was dangerous.
Mark Kumar Roy's life was painted in different colours. The son of an Indian father and an American mother, he straddled two cultures: Indian kitchens filled with spice and reverence, American directness and freedom of expression. He leaned towards openness, unafraid to voice what he felt, yet he treasured Indian values — loyalty, family, the sanctity of marriage.
His marriage had been beautiful, marked by tenderness and laughter. Yet tragedy shadowed it. Miscarriage after miscarriage stripped their joy until, at last, his daughter Hillary was born — fragile, luminous, the miracle they had prayed for. Then, cruelly, fate took his wife from him, leaving him a widower. A single father. A man who carried sorrow with quiet dignity.
He poured everything into Hillary, raising her with patience and devotion. She became his light, his reason to rise each morning. But when the house fell silent and she drifted to sleep, loneliness settled around him like an unwelcome guest.
And so, we lived: I in London and airports, carrying a weary, guarded heart; he in America, balancing heritage and loss, raising Hillary with love while carrying absence in his soul.
Separate ledgers. Separate scars.
But the universe has its own method of keeping balance. Every scar has its counter-entry, every loss its unseen preparation. Neither of us knew it then, but the accounts were already written. That red mark I had left in Detroit was not an ending — it was the first line of a new beginning.