In a small neighborhood where old trees almost completely covered the houses in greenery, there lived a boy named Ignatius Raja. Every morning, his house was filled with soft light that filtered through thick curtains and reflected off the mirrors on the walls, playing on the shelves with books and figurines left behind by his parents. The air was filled with the aroma of freshly brewed tea mixed with the smell of freshly baked bread and polished floorboards, creating the feeling that the house was breathing along with its inhabitants, gently smoothing away the anxieties of the outside world.
Ignatius loved to watch this in the morning. He would sit on the windowsill and look out at the garden, where birds flitted from branch to branch and the sun's rays played on the dewdrops, scattering tiny crystals of light across the green leaves. Sometimes it seemed as if the whole world was subject to the quiet harmony of his home: every sound—the rustle of wings, the creak of floorboards, the smell of fresh tea contributed to a feeling of security and peace that was almost magical in nature.
The main source of this harmony was his father, Manish Raja. Short, with neatly trimmed hair and eyes that mixed fatigue and kindness, he turned every morning into a ritual of care. Manish walked through the garden, checking on the flowers, watching the sun's glare dance on the leaves, and feeding the birds that were accustomed to his hands. Ignatius sat down at the table in the gazebo and did his homework, looking at his father with admiration: even the most ordinary things seemed full of meaning and warmth.
-Dad, why do they argue so much in Parliament? Ignatius asked, glancing at the old photographs in the frame. - Can't they just agree?
Manish smiled, sitting down next to him. His gaze gently slid over his son, as if assessing how ready the boy was to understand complex things.
-Adults sometimes forget that respect is more important than ambition, son, he said. - But if you remember that, it will be easier for you to find common ground even with those who seem stubborn.
Ignatius thought for a moment, twisting the pen in his hands, as if trying to hold every thought on the pages of the notebook where he was writing down his father's advice.
-So even if someone does something wrong, you have to try to understand them? he asked cautiously.
-Exactly, Manish nodded. - Understanding doesn't mean agreeing. It means seeing the reasons behind a person's actions. And one more thing: never forget to be honest with yourself.
-What if I try and it still doesn't work out? Ignatius asked quietly, his shoulders slumping slightly.
Manish put his hand on his son's shoulder.
-Then at least you will have tried. And that means a lot, son.
Ignatius nodded, feeling his heart fill with a gentle warmth that was enough to close his eyes and believe that everything would be all right as long as his father was nearby.
But behind the comfort and soft light of home, there was always another force at work — Irina Raja, Ignatius's mother. Her presence in the house was felt instantly, as if the air was filled with a soft glow. Her long hair, neatly styled for the morning, reflected the light from the lamp, creating the illusion of a small ray of sunshine revolving around her. The light scent of her perfume mingled with the smell of fresh bread and tea, filling the room with an invisible thread of care and strictness at the same time.
-Ignatius, dear, don't forget to thank Dad for the tea, she said, gliding through the kitchen in a silk robe. Her voice was soft, almost melodic, but there was a hidden demand in it, as thin as a string that was always kept taut.
-Yes, Mom, Ignatius replied quietly, noticing her gaze. There was something attractive and cold about it at the same time, and the boy, despite his childish sincerity, understood that his mother knew how to influence people even without words.
Irina approached each morning as if it were a stage where every gesture had to be flawless. She chose her clothes with refined taste, carefully adjusted her hair, looked in the mirror, and smiled slightly at her reflection, as if convincing herself and those around her that the world was perfect. Every movement was refined and beautiful, but Ignatius began to notice that behind this beauty sometimes lay calculation. Small remarks about gifts, about the attention of guests, quiet reminders of how important it was to make an impression — all this was part of her complex nature.
-We're having friends over today, Ignatius, she said, adjusting her son's shirt collar. - Remember to behave beautifully and with dignity. Appearances are important, son. In our world, people judge by them.
Ignatius nodded, smiling slightly, embarrassed. He felt a contradictory warmth and severity in her words. On the one hand, he trusted his mother, but on the other, he was gradually learning to distinguish between sincerity and skillful acting.
On Ignatius' fifteenth birthday, the house greeted him quietly, almost as if in anticipation of an important event. The morning began as usual: the smell of freshly brewed tea, the faint scent of his father's cologne, the soft noise outside the window. Manish had already left for work, leaving behind a thin thread of calm, and his mother, Irina, announced that she was going out on business.
-Ignatius, dear, it's such a wonderful day today, maybe you'd like to choose something for yourself? she said, adjusting her scarf and glancing in the mirror, as if checking that her radiance was harmonious in the morning.
-Thanks, Mom, he replied quietly, smiling slightly, embarrassed. - I think I'll go to school.
The day at school was eventful: congratulations, laughter, jokes from classmates, small talk, and children's competitions. But Ignatius' thoughts kept returning home. He dreamed of growing up and becoming as judicious, wise, and strong as his father. Therefore, after returning from class, he sat down at the table, opened books on parliamentary history and politics, trying to feel the spirit of Manish and his ability to make decisions.
When evening came, his father returned, and Ignatius immediately noticed a strange tiredness and hidden sadness in his eyes.
-Dad, how was your day? he asked cautiously.
-Everything's fine, son, Manish replied quietly, hiding his anxiety behind his usual smile, and headed for his room.
Quiet sobbing could be heard from the room. Ignatius froze, not knowing whether to knock on the door or leave his father alone with his thoughts. A tense, almost invisible shadow hung over the house, one that he did not yet understand.
The next morning, Ignatius woke up earlier than usual. His heart was beating faster—his birthday had left him with a strange feeling of anxiety. His mother was not in the kitchen, and the silence weighed heavily on his chest.
-Dad, where's Mom? he asked cautiously.
Manish looked at his son, the fatigue in his eyes evident, and after a long pause said,
-I... I think she went out on business.
Ignatius sensed that there was more to these words, but his father did not want to talk. Manish's gaze was fixed on the window, where the soft light of the new day barely penetrated the curtains.
-Dad... if something happened, can you tell me? Ignatius asked quietly.
Manish smiled, but it was a faint smile, like the early morning sun breaking through the clouds.
-Everything will be fine, son. Let's have breakfast first.
Breakfast passed in silence: the clink of a teaspoon against a mug, the rustle of newspaper, the faint scent of perfume and tea — but every sound seemed to amplify the feeling of emptiness. Ignatius understood that something had changed forever.
After breakfast, he stayed at home, feeling an invisible thread connecting him to his father. He quietly entered Manish's room:
-Dad... can I sit next to you?
Manish looked up, and a faint smile appeared on his face.
-Of course, son... sit down.
Ignatius sat on the edge of the chair, watching his father's hands glide over the pages of documents and his shoulders tremble slightly.
-Dad, you're very upset... he began cautiously.
-Ignatius... sometimes adults make mistakes, and they can't always fix them, - Manish said quietly, turning away. - But that doesn't mean we can't handle it. We'll always find a way, son.
Ignatius felt his determination rise: he wanted to be as strong as his father, ready to take responsibility and support his loved ones. He nodded quietly, hiding his tears.
-I want to be like you, Dad... so that nothing and no one can break us.
Manish took his hand and squeezed it.
-And you will be, son. You are already strong... stronger than you think.
After a short pause in Manish's room, Ignatius felt a slight warmth, as if his father was invisibly supporting his spirit. He listened to the man's steady breathing, and a thought slowly formed in his head: - I must be strong. I must grow up to be worthy. Every word his father said, every movement of his hands and every glance that hid his fatigue, was engraved in the boy's memory like invisible lessons in fortitude and wisdom.
Ignatius left the room and slowly walked through the house, peeking into each room. The kitchen, where the morning light glided across the table; the living room, where books and photographs stood on the shelves, each one like a small window into the past; his father's study with its neatly arranged papers and ink notes — all of this now seemed strangely unfamiliar and yet familiar at the same time. He imagined that his mother was about to return, and he wanted to tidy everything up so that her arrival would not disturb the usual comfort.
-Mom... he whispered to himself as he walked past the mirror, which reflected his young but already troubled face. - I want you to see that I'm trying...
The room was filled with the light scent of Irina's perfume mixed with the smell of old books, and the boy could almost feel her presence. Every movement of his hands, every adjustment of the pillows on the sofa, every neat arrangement of books on the shelves — all this was an attempt to maintain order, as if the house itself could protect their family from the outside world.
After that, he sat down at the table and opened his notebook with notes on politics and history. But his thoughts kept returning to his mother. He remembered her morning smile, her soft voice, and the gentle sternness with which she knew how to calm and instruct at the same time. He wanted to tell her everything he had learned, share his discoveries, hear her praise and approval. But instead, the room remained silent, as if the very nature of the house had held its breath.
When evening came and his father returned from work, Ignatius noticed the fatigue in his movements, but the softness in his gaze. He wanted to ask about his mother, but the fear of disrupting the usual order and the anxiety from the morning's silence stopped him.
-Dad, is Mom coming home soon? he finally asked, sitting down next to him on the sofa.
Manish replied calmly, but with a barely noticeable note of fatigue:
-Soon, son. She just went out on business.
Ignatius nodded, trying to believe his father's words, and felt relieved inside. He saw how his father took care of the house and him, how he tried to maintain the usual rhythm. And that gave the boy a sense of security. But deep down, he still hoped that his mother would return any minute, smile, and dispel the anxiety that had enveloped the house.
In the evening, when Manish went to his room, Ignatius was left alone. He leaned against the sofa, listening to the creaking of the floorboards, the rustling of leaves outside the window, and the distant hum of the city. Everything around him seemed familiar, but his heart was beating faster—the boy missed his mother and had no idea that her betrayal had already taken place. In his eyes, she remained kind, beloved, and infallible.
He slowly walked around the house, looking into every room, carefully rearranging books and pillows, as if preparing the space for her arrival. He imagined her sitting opposite him, asking about school, what he had learned and what he had discovered. His heart was filled with both anxiety and hope.
With each passing minute, the evening slowly deepened, painting the walls with a soft golden light. Ignatius sat by the window, occasionally glancing out at the street, hoping to see his mother's familiar figure, and a feeling arose in his chest that the house was about to be filled with its usual comfort. His hands restlessly turned the pages of his notebook, but his thoughts kept returning to her.
-Mom always knew how to make everything beautiful, he thought, smiling slightly. - I want her to see how hard I'm trying to be a good son.
He carefully rearranged the pillows on the sofa, as if preparing them for her arrival, then quietly went into the kitchen to put the mug from the morning on the table. It seemed as if he wanted to create the feeling of a familiar family evening, where everything was in its place, even if his mother had not yet returned.
When his father entered the living room, Ignatius noticed the fatigue on his face, but the softness in his eyes was comforting. He walked over and put his hand on Manish's shoulder.
-Dad, maybe we can look at these notes together? he suggested.
-With pleasure, son, Manish replied quietly, sitting down next to him.
They spent some time discussing political ideas and situations from the life of parliament. Ignatius tried to show that he was studying, that he wanted to be like his father. But his gaze kept returning to the door, his heart pounding — he still hoped to see his mother, hear her voice, see her smile.
-Maybe your mother is delayed, son... his father said quietly, noticing his son's gaze. - Don't worry, she'll be back soon.
Ignatius nodded and smiled, trying to believe the words. He believed in his mother as he believed in the bright sun that lit up the house every day. He had no idea that behind this hope lay a betrayal that would cast a shadow over their family.
Late evening enveloped the house in a soft silence. Ignatius sat in his room with the window open, letting in the cool breeze whispering through the leaves of the trees in the yard. There was a faint smell of books and paper in the room, and it seemed to the boy that these scents could maintain the familiar order of the house.
He thought about his mother, imagining her smile and soft voice again, which always knew how to comfort and cheer him up. A slight anxiety remained — his mother was staying longer than usual, but his heart still did not suspect betrayal. He believed that everything could be explained and that she would return soon, filling the house with laughter and warmth again.
-Mom, I'm waiting for you so much... Ignatius whispered quietly, resting his forehead on the windowsill. - I want you to see how I study, how hard I try...
With each breath, anxiety and hope intertwined, the warmth of memories and a slight sadness. He heard a door creak quietly somewhere in the house, but it was just the wind, not her return. Ignatius sat down at the table again, opened his notebook, but his thoughts returned to waiting for his mother.
Even when he got up and walked around the house, checking to see if she was in the living room or the kitchen, his heart remained anxious and hopeful at the same time. He neatly arranged the books, straightened the pillows, and made sure the house was cozy, as if preparing for her return.
Ignatius did not yet understand that today something would change forever. For him, his mother remained beloved, kind, and infallible. This innocent belief made his anticipation especially painful, because his heart wanted to see her here, but reality remained silent and kept its secrets.