The first missed call was from his mother.
He saw it when he unlocked his phone at lunch. One missed call. No message. He stared at the screen for a second longer than necessary, then locked it again.
He told himself he would call back later.
Later never came.
The second missed call was from his best friend. The same friend. The name itself made his chest tighten. He didn't answer that either. Not because he didn't care—but because he didn't know what to say anymore.
At work, his mistakes became harder to ignore.
A report went out with incorrect data. A client pointed it out sharply during a call. His manager's voice, usually calm, carried a clear edge.
"This isn't like you."
Those words hurt more than anger would have.
By evening, his body felt heavier than usual. His shoulders ached. His eyes burned. When he reached home, his mother noticed immediately.
"You look tired these days," she said, handing him a glass of water. "Are you eating properly?"
"I'm fine," he replied.
She didn't argue. She never did. That somehow made it worse.
That night, sleep came in broken pieces.
He dreamed of roads. Long, empty roads. He woke up before dawn, heart racing, unsure why. The room felt too quiet, like something was missing.
On his way to office the next day, the bus passed by the old temple.
He hadn't been there in years.
As a child, his mother used to bring him there whenever things felt uncertain—exams, results, job interviews. Not to ask for miracles, she said, but to sit quietly. To breathe.
He looked at the temple as the bus moved past.
For a brief moment, he felt something close to peace.
The day dragged on. He forgot a meeting. Spilled coffee on his shirt. Snapped at a colleague who didn't deserve it. Immediately regretted it, but didn't apologize.
By night, the exhaustion wasn't just physical. It was deeper. Like carrying a weight that kept increasing, kilogram by kilogram.
He stood on the balcony of his house, city lights flickering below. His phone buzzed again.
Missed call. Mother.
He closed his eyes.
Without thinking too much, he grabbed his bike keys.
He didn't tell anyone where he was going. He didn't even fully understand it himself.
He just knew this
He needed to go to the temple.
Not to pray.
Not to ask for anything.
Just to be somewhere the past felt quieter.
As he stepped out into the night, a strange calm settled over him. The kind that comes right before something changes.
The temple was quieter than he remembered.
The lights were dim, the bells muted, the air carrying the familiar smell of incense and old stone. A few people sat scattered across the courtyard, heads bowed, lips moving in silent prayers. No one noticed him. No one needed to.
He removed his slippers and walked in slowly.
For a while, he just stood there.
Not praying. Not asking for answers. Just breathing.
Memories came uninvited. His mother holding his hand when he was small. The nervous excitement before exam results. The relief of standing here after his first job interview, believing—just for a moment—that life might be kind.
He sat down on the cold floor near the pillar, back resting against it.
His thoughts drifted, as they always did now, to her.
Not the way she died. He avoided that.
Instead, the way she lived.
The confidence in her voice. The certainty with which she spoke about leaving for the USA. The way she trusted life to move forward.
You were brave, he thought. I was not.
When the priest began closing the temple, he stood up without resistance. Some places were not meant to be stayed in forever.
Outside, the road was nearly empty.
Across from the temple, faintly lit by a broken streetlamp, lay the stretch of road everyone avoided. No signboard. No warning. Just an uneasy silence around it.
He knew this place.
Everyone did.
People whispered about accidents there. About how suddenly things ended. He didn't stop to think why his feet slowed as he passed it.
On the corner, a small liquor shop was still open.
He hesitated.
Then walked in.
One bottle. Cheap. Enough to blur the edges of his thoughts, not erase them. He drank slowly, standing near the roadside, the night air cooling his skin. He didn't feel good. He didn't feel bad either.
Just… lighter.
When the bottle was empty, he threw it into the dustbin nearby. No drama. No collapse. Just a man who had reached the end of his strength for the day.
He looked back once—at the temple, at the road, at the quiet space between them.
"I'm tired," he whispered, to no one.
As he walked forward, the world felt oddly still.
Too still.
He didn't know that this night was about to answer the question he had been asking for weeks.
Not with words.
But with time itself.