Episode 1 — The Room That Learned Silence
The boy is sitting on a chair—not comfortably, not uncomfortably—just enough to remain awake.
The chair doesn't creak. It has learned his weight over time.
The room is quiet, but not empty.
Silence here feels accumulated, as if it has been settling for years.
He writes the daily consequences of life.
Not thoughts.
Not feelings.
Consequences.
The pen moves steadily, trained by repetition.
This is not the first time he has written like this.
This is a habit formed after loss.
He looks toward his brother's photo kept on the table.
The frame is slightly tilted—never corrected, never ignored.
Dust gathers on the edges, not on the face.
That pause is longer than the others.
He writes in the diary:
why krishna why you was this much kind
The words sit there, imperfect, untouched.
The page doesn't judge grammar.
It absorbs intention.
The room feels tighter now—not because it changed,
but because memory stepped closer.
humans always think about their lives first
Outside, something moves—maybe wind, maybe people, maybe time.
None of it enters the room.
you shouldn't helped that little girl who was kidnapped
The pen slows here.
Not from doubt—from inevitability.
you knew what it would cost
The boy doesn't cry.
Crying would interrupt the process.
He exhales once—controlled, practiced.
This is not anger.
This is understanding arriving too late.
The diary remains open.
The photo remains silent.
The chair remains still.
This is not a dramatic moment.
This is a forming moment.
A child learning that kindness is real—
and that reality is cruel enough to punish it.
He stops for a few moments.
Not because the words are finished, but because they become too heavy to hold in the same room.
The chair remains behind.
The diary stays open.
The sentence incomplete.
He walks into Krishna's room.
The space is different—not warmer, just preserved.
A large photograph dominates the wall, carefully decorated with flowers.
They are fresh. Always fresh. Replaced daily, even when hands shake.
The scent is the only thing in the house that feels alive.
Here, control breaks.
He cries—quietly at first, then without rhythm.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
The kind of crying meant only for someone who cannot answer anymore.
His forehead rests briefly against the frame—just long enough to admit weakness.
Then it ends.
Abruptly.
As if switched off.
He steps back, wipes his face without looking at his hands, and leaves the room unchanged.
Back on the chair.
Back to the diary.
The pen moves again.
you decided to save girl it was a good thing
but I'm not like you
I'm dev not krishna
i can't behave kindly
i'm selfish one
when you was alive i always forced you to live selfish like me
The words are written without pause, as if already prepared.
This is not confession.
This is definition.
The boy doesn't look at the photo this time.
He has already looked enough.
The diary stays open.
The night continues.
And somewhere between the tears and the ink,
a line is drawn—not between good and bad,
but between who died and who remained.
He stops writing.
The pen rests where his fingers leave it—parallel to the final line.
Not thrown.
Not held.
For a moment, he looks at the page—not to reread, but to confirm it exists.
Then he closes the diary.
Not gently.
Not harshly.
With the same control he used to write every word.
The sound is small.
Final.
Contained.
The lamp continues to glow.
The chair remains still.
The room accepts the silence back without resistance.
Nothing is resolved.
But something has been sealed.
The room is still quiet after the diary is closed—only the low hum of the ceiling fan and the soft ticking of a wall clock stretch the silence.
everything is fine
is it really fine or i'm just trying to reassure myself
The door opens without a knock.
Dev's father enters—something they usually don't do.
He pats Dev's head and says casually,
"Hey, what's this diary? Is this your love story?"
The hallway light spills across the bed, the desk, the closed diary.
Dev blushes.
"I… I'll get some snacks," he says, rushing past.
His footsteps echo sharply on the stairs.
Alone now, his father opens the diary.
The pages rustle softly.
His expression changes—slowly, quietly.
In the kitchen, Dev's mother prepares dinner.
"What happened?" she asks, reading his face.
"I'm fine," Dev says, smiling.
She pauses.
"You're just like your father," she says gently.
"Always hiding pain behind a fake smile."
The spoon stops moving.
Dev's breath breaks.
Tears surface.
He runs upstairs again.
The door shuts behind him with a dull thud.
The room returns to its dim silence—the desk, the chair, the diary untouched.
Dev wipes his tears.
Then he laughs.
Loudly.
The sound fills the room—sharp, hollow—bouncing off the walls, mixing with the hum of the fan.
The moment stretches.
Uneasy.
Night settles slowly over the house.
Dinner is served, but only one plate is touched.
Dev eats alone.
His movements are normal—too normal.
The spoon rises. Falls.
The food loses taste halfway through.
Tears slide down without urgency.
Without resistance.
The reason behind his laughter still doesn't make sense to him.
It rests somewhere between confusion and exhaustion—unnamed, unresolved.
The house remains quiet.
Frame change.
In another room, his father scrolls through his phone.
Headlines pass.
Notifications blur into routine.
A vibration interrupts.
A message from Dev:
Tomorrow we will discuss something.
Meet with me in Krishna's room.
His father pauses.
What's happening with you? If something is troubling you, tell me freely.
Another message arrives.
Tomorrow we will discuss.
Nothing more.
He exhales slowly.
Another vibration.
A photo opens—
a page from Dev's diary.
The handwriting is familiar.
Too familiar.
Dev sends two emojis.
😉😮💨
His father stares at the screen, unsure how to read it.
He replies with one symbol.
🤔
The conversation ends.
Later, he opens a video.
Public footage.
Crowds. Noise. Movement.
Krishna's assassination plays again.
His father watches.
No anger.
No grief.
No visible reaction.
That absence unsettles him more than pain ever could.
The screen turns dark.
The next morning, Dev and his father enter Krishna's room.
The door closes.
Nothing has changed.
Books untouched.
Light unchanged.
Silence preserved.
Dev speaks.
We don't hear what he says.
His father's eyes sharpen.
"What did you just say?"
Silence answers instead.
Later that day, his father stands alone at a grave.
Krishna's name rests on the stone.
"Hey, son… how are you doing?" he whispers.
"I heard…"
He hesitates.
"I heard by an angel that you are in hell."
A breath escapes him.
"Why?"
Footsteps approach.
A girl appears behind him.
She laughs lightly.
"Hey uncle," she says.
"Was that angel… Dev?"