Rain lashed against the window. Thunder rolled like the echo of distant drums.
In a dim room that smelled of dust and old liquor, Aryan lay half-buried beneath a mess of blankets and empty bottles.
Once, his voice could silence storms.
Now, only the clink of glass answered him.
A flickering holo-screen lay on the floor beside him — replaying fragments of history from an old war broadcast. The image crackled, distorted, but the voice that came through was unmistakable — strong, fearless, filled with fire.
> "We shall fight on the landing grounds," the younger Aryan's voice thundered,
"we shall fight in the fields and in the streets; we shall fight in the hills;
we shall fight in sea and storm, in thunder and in cold—
we shall never surrender!"
The sound carried power — the kind that once stirred armies and kindled hope in dying hearts.
The room's silence afterward was unbearable.
The Aryan lying on the bed exhaled softly, a bitter smile tugging at his lips.
> "We shall never surrender…" he repeated under his breath, voice slurred with exhaustion.
He let out a dry laugh that turned into a cough.
His hand reached for the last half-empty bottle on the table. It slipped from his fingers and rolled across the floor, coming to rest against a pair of worn boots — boots that had once marched across burning worlds.
The rain outside grew heavier. A faint spark of lightning flashed, illuminating the room — the walls lined with medals, faded photos, and a dusty staff mounted above his bed. The staff no longer glowed.
He turned his head toward it, eyes dim but longing.
> "You remember that day, don't you?" he murmured. "When we still believed words could save worlds."
His fingers trembled as he tried to lift himself up.
> "Guru said… I should rest. Retire."
He chuckled again, bitterly. "Retire. As if legends get to grow old."
He dragged himself to the window, pushing the curtain aside.
The city lights below blurred through the rain — distant, indifferent.
> "Where are you now, my Love? " he whispered. "Where are all of you?"
A single tear slipped down his cheek, lost among the raindrops on the glass.
Then, from somewhere beyond the storm, a sound reached him — soft, like a pulse in the sky.
It lasted only a moment.
But Aryan froze.
The bottles around him rattled. The air trembled faintly.
> "No…" he breathed.
"It can't be…"