The silence after the fight was worse than the shouting.
Farhan sat alone in the dim room, his body still, his hands trembling slightly. The words Aryan had said kept replaying in his head — each sentence carving deeper than the last.
You don't deserve to be called his father.
He doesn't care about you at all.
Let him be at peace.
His chest tightened.
For the first time, the truth settled in — not as anger, not as denial, but as loss.
His breath grew uneven.
"I lost him…" he whispered to no one.
His voice cracked, and suddenly, the strength he had worn for years collapsed.
He covered his face with his hands.
A broken sound escaped his throat — something between a sob and a gasp. His shoulders shook violently as everything he had buried came rushing back.
The nights he chose work over his child.
The calls he never answered.
The birthdays he missed.
The funeral he didn't return for.
"Nani Rahima…" he choked.
"You protected him when I didn't."
Tears soaked his palms.
"I left him alone," he whispered again and again.
"I left my own son alone."
His body folded forward, his forehead touching the floor like a defeated man begging for forgiveness that would never come.
"He was just a child…"
"And I abandoned him."
For the first time in years, Farhan cried — not quietly, not controlled — but completely shattered.
And no one came to comfort him.
The twins stood outside for a long time after everything went silent.
Their hearts felt heavy, like something precious had been ripped away from them before they even had the chance to hold it.
Finally, they walked inside.
Their footsteps were small, hesitant.
Farhan looked up. Amna turned toward them.
The first twin spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.
"So… that's why bhai never talks to us?"
No answer.
The second twin swallowed hard.
"That's why he looks at us like we don't belong to him…"
Their voices weren't angry.
They were broken.
"We thought he hated us," the first twin said.
"We thought we did something wrong."
The second twin's eyes filled with tears.
"But now we know…"
"He was just tired."
Amna tried to speak.
"We never meant—"
The first twin cut her off.
"You left him."
The room went still.
"You both left him," he continued.
"And then you brought us into his place."
The second twin stepped forward.
"He didn't hate us," he said quietly.
"He just didn't have anything left."
His fists clenched.
"You took his parents away."
"You took his home."
"And then you expected him to smile for us."
Farhan looked away, unable to meet their eyes.
The first twin whispered, voice shaking,
"Do you know what hurts the most?"
Neither parent spoke.
"He didn't even fight back."
"He just disappeared."
The twins turned and walked away together.
Not angry.
Just empty.
Miles away, in a quiet house, Zayan slept.
The night wrapped around him gently.
No nightmares.
No sudden fear.
No pain crawling through his head.
His breathing was slow, steady — something it hadn't been in years.
Professor Farooq's house held a strange warmth. It didn't ask questions. It didn't demand explanations. It didn't hurt him.
For the first time, Zayan didn't feel like he had to survive.
He just existed.
His face was calm — not happy, not sad — just… still.
Back home, guilt ate everything alive.
Farhan sat awake until morning, staring at nothing, knowing his son was sleeping peacefully somewhere far away — without him.
Amna lay on the bed, tears silently soaking her pillow, realizing too late that love delayed becomes regret.
The twins stayed awake together, whispering promises to someone who couldn't hear them.
"We won't replace you."
"We won't forget you."
"We'll wait… even if you never come back."
And Zayan?
Zayan slept on.
Unaware of the guilt.
Unaware of the regret.
Unaware of the pain he left behind.
For the first time in his life…
He was free.