Shubman felt like the ground beneath him had vanished, yet his heart stubbornly kept beating, refusing to understand what his mind already knew. He stared at his own hand—the one Aryaman had never let go of. Now, it lay open, empty in a way that made his chest ache, as if a part of him had been severed.

Pashmina, terrified, ran upstairs after witnessing Aryaman's behavior. She cupped his cheeks, her hands trembling as sobs racked her body. "No, no! My chipmunk won't leave his Mumma and Papa. No, he won't!" Her voice cracked as fresh tears spilled down her face. She clung to him desperately, her fingers digging into his arms as if holding him tighter would keep him from slipping away.

"Aryaman, you cannot do this... you cannot..." she choked out, her breath hitching between her cries. Pressing her forehead against his chin, she wept uncontrollably, her body shaking with grief. "Please... please, my baby, don't leave us..." Her voice was barely a whisper now, a plea wrapped in anguish.

But Aryaman stood silent, his fists clenched, his throat tight. He fought back the tears threatening to spill as he gazed into Pashmina's red, tear-streaked eyes

Pashmina clung to Aryaman like he was slipping through her fingers, like he was made of sand and the harder she held on, the faster he'd fall away. Her breath was warm and uneven against his chest, her body trembling in a way that made something deep inside him ache.

"Aryaman," she whispered again, her voice cracking over the syllables of his name, as if saying it enough times would tether him to her. "Please."

His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms. He wanted to say something, anything, but his throat felt lined with barbed wire. The weight in his chest was unbearable.

Shubman watched them, his feet rooted to the floor, his body betraying him. His hands, once strong enough to lift Aryaman onto his shoulders, now hung uselessly at his sides, drained of purpose. He had always been the protector, the one who stood between his family and the storms of the world. But now, he was just a man watching his son slip away, powerless to stop it.

"Say something," Pashmina sobbed, pulling back just enough to look into Aryaman's face. Her red, swollen eyes searched for a flicker of hesitation, a reason to believe this wasn't real. "Tell me this isn't real. Tell me you'll stay."

Aryaman pulled Pashmina back, his grip gentle but firm, like a final thread slipping through. His face turned away, eyes darting everywhere but hers, as if looking at her would undo him completely.

"Mu—" He stopped, his throat tightening around the word. He swallowed hard, forcing his breath steady. "It's late. You should go home," he said, voice hollow. "I'm at mine now."

Pashmina blinked, confusion flashing through the storm of her grief. Her hands were still on him, still holding, still pleading. "What... what are you saying?" she whispered, shaking her head.

Aryaman forced himself to step back. The space between them felt cavernous, unbearable. He knew if he stayed any longer, if he let her break him, he wouldn't be able to go through with it.

"You're my home," she said suddenly, voice trembling. "What do you mean yours? There is no yours. It's ours. It's us, Aryaman!" Her hands trembled as she reached for him again, but he didn't move.

Shubman exhaled a trembling breath. "Aryaman," he said, quieter now, his voice no longer carrying the weight of a father's authority, only the rawness of a man standing at the edge of loss.

Aryaman closed his eyes. He could still feel them—his mother's warmth, his father's presence, the love that had been his shield, his foundation, his everything.

And yet, the air around him had already changed.

Something in him had already stepped away.

He forced his feet to move, just a little, just enough to make them understand. "Go," he whispered, more to himself than to them. "Before I can't."

Pashmina shook her head furiously, fresh tears falling. She turned to Shubman, desperate, waiting for him to stop this, to do something, anything. But Shubman only looked at Aryaman—looked at him as if memorizing him, as if trying to carve this moment into something permanent, something he could hold onto when nothing else was left.

And then, with a quiet that felt deafening, he reached for Pashmina's trembling fingers and held them. Held her. Held what was left.

Pashmina let out a broken sob, her body giving in, collapsing against Shubman's chest.

Aryaman turned away.

Shubman turned too, pulling a sobbing Pashmina into his arms—a mother breaking apart in his grasp. He tried to steady himself, to be the pillar she needed, but with every sob that shook Pashmina's body, his own resolve cracked, splintering under the weight of her grief.

There was only so much a man could take before the pain dulled itself into silence. Soon, he knew, there would be nothing left to feel. And that's exactly what happened—over the last month, Shubman had locked himself away in a dark room, letting the silence swallow him whole.

The days bled into nights, indistinguishable. The only movement in the room came from the rhythmic sound of the ball meeting the wall—a habit born not from purpose, but from the need to fill the silence.

The dented ball struck the wall with a hollow thud, rebounding with just enough force to return to the waiting hands. Fingers curled around it—fingers that bore the first signs of time's slow erosion. Wrinkles traced their way along the knuckles, subtle yet undeniable.

Back and forth. Again and again. Each throw seemed heavier, as if the ball carried more than just air and rubber within it.

The ball, which was once full of energy in a child's hands, now bounced back and forth without life.

The hands that once held a baby now held only memories.

There was a feeling that something was lost.

The hollow thud stopped as the door creaked open into the dark room. Tired and weary, Pashmina walked in, a plate of food in her hands. She sat on the edge of the bed, sniffling softly as she broke off a piece of food.

Then, the past hit her—sharp and sudden, like a cricket ball striking her stomach. She had been here before, in this same situation. Only then, it was her Paaji offering her food.

She bit her lip, holding back her tears, as she extended the morsel toward Shubman. He didn't move, didn't acknowledge her. His gaze remained fixed on the wall, empty and distant.

Then, in the same hollow voice he had been repeating for the past month, he spoke the only words that ever left his lips.

"I want my boy back."

Shubman sat in the rocking chair, his fingers tracing the dent on the red ball. The soft creak of the chair filled the silence, blending with Pashmina's slow, uneven breaths. She sat in front of him, at the edge of the bed, holding a small morsel of food in her trembling fingers—meant for him, though he never reached for it. His eyes stayed fixed on the ball, lost in a time only he could see.

"He never left it," Shubman murmured, his voice distant. "Even in his sleep... always held it close."

Pashmina swallowed hard, pushing the morsel toward him, but before she could speak, the ball slipped from his grasp.

It tumbled to the floor, rolling just beyond his reach.

Shubman jolted forward, his breath catching in his throat. In an instant, he snatched it up, gripping it tightly as his shoulders rose and fell with ragged breaths. His fingers curled around the worn leather as if holding on for dear life.

His lips trembled, his eyes glistening. And then, in a broken whisper, he spoke—not to Pashmina, but to the ball in his hands.

"Don't go... don't go," he pleaded.

Pashmina's breath faltered. She had seen Shubman broken before, but never like this—never crumbling in slow motion, piece by piece, with nothing left to catch him.

He clutched the ball tighter, his fingers digging into the worn leather, as if the force of his grip alone could rewind time, could summon Aryaman back into his arms. His whole body trembled—not with rage, not with grief, but with something far worse. Emptiness.

Pashmina moved closer, the floor creaking beneath her, but Shubman didn't lift his head.

"I should have held him tighter," he rasped, the words barely leaving his lips. "I should have known—should have seen—" A shudder ran through him.

Pashmina set the plate aside, the clatter of metal against wood swallowed by the silence between them. She didn't think—just moved, climbing onto his lap like she had so many times before, when the world felt too cruel to bear.

Her hands found his face, rough with neglect, cold despite the warmth of the room. She pressed her forehead to his, her breath unsteady.

"Shubhi," she whispered, her voice raw. No plea, no demand—just his name, like an anchor, like a tether trying to pull him back

He looked up at her with tired eyes—eyes that had once been sharp, alive, always scanning the field, always chasing the next run. Now, they held nothing but exhaustion. The athlete who had once carried the weight of a bat with effortless grace now looked like a man too weary to even lift himself.

A month without cricket. A month without the rhythm of the game that had once been his life. But more than that—a month without his boy.

His fingers twitched around the ball, gripping it like it was the last piece of Aryaman he had left.

Pashmina’s thumbs brushed over his cheekbones, tracing the hollows that grief had carved into his face. “You haven’t even stepped outside,” she murmured, her voice aching with something between sorrow and helplessness.

"I don't know how," he admitted, his voice hoarse, stripped of everything it once was.

For the first time in a month, Shubman said something different. Something that wasn't a plea, wasn't a whisper to a memory, wasn't the same broken words circling the room like ghosts.

Pashmina stilled, her fingers trembling against his skin. She had braced herself for silence, for another empty stare. But not this. Not honesty raw enough to sound like defeat.

His grip on the ball loosened, just slightly. "If I step outside... and he's not there..." His throat bobbed, his breath uneven. "Then it's real."

He rested his head against Pashmina's chest, his body heavy with exhaustion. "Minaa," he murmured—her nickname, spoken for the first time in so long that it sent a small wave of warmth through her aching heart.

Pashmina tightened her hold around him, her fingers threading through his hair, as if willing her strength into him. "I'm here," she whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple.

She could feel the rise and fall of his breath, the way his body sagged into hers, no longer holding himself together by sheer force alone. Encouraged by her embrace, by the quiet understanding between them, she stroked his back soothingly.

"Talk to me, Shubman," she urged softly. "Say what's in your heart."

"I don't know how to be his father if he's not here," he admitted, his voice cracking. "I don't know who I am without him."

Pashmina's grip on him tightened, her heartbeat pressing against his ear, steady and certain. She didn't hesitate. "Then we bring him home," she murmured.

Shubman stilled. For the first time in a month, something flickered in his eyes—not just grief, not just longing, but the ghost of something else. Something close to fight.

"How?" His voice was rough, cracked around the edges. It wasn't doubt, not entirely. It was the cautious question of a man too afraid to hope.

Pashmina pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her hands still cradling his face. "We don't stop," she said, fierce now. "Not until he's back where he belongs."

Shubman blinked, as if trying to process the weight of those words. The walls he had built around himself trembled, not quite breaking, but no longer unshaken. He wanted to believe her—needed to. But before he could find his voice, before he could even nod—

A soft shuffling at the door made them turn their heads. Standing just beyond the threshold, little Innayat peeked out from behind the wall, her small fingers clutching the edge as if it could somehow keep her hidden.

Her wide, uncertain eyes flitted between her parents, lingering on Shubman—the father who had once been her safe haven, her hero. But now, he looked different. Dull. Faded. A shadow of the ever-handsome man she had always known

She hesitated, afraid to step forward, afraid to speak. Afraid that the father who used to scoop her into his arms with a laugh might not even see her this time.

Pashmina felt Shubman stiffen beneath her touch, saw the way his fingers curled into his palms. He opened his mouth, but no words came.

Innayat took a hesitant step forward, her eyes searching his face. "Papa...?" Her voice was small, unsure, as if she wasn't certain he would answer.

Shubman swallowed hard, his heart twisting. He had been so consumed by the loss of one child that he had unknowingly distanced himself from the other.

Shubman opened his arms, an unspoken apology resting in the quiet space between them. His movements were hesitant, almost unsure—like a man learning to hold his child all over again.

Innayat's eyes widened, her lips parting as if to say something, but no words came. For a moment, she didn't move. Then, in a sudden rush, she crossed the room, burying herself against him.

Shubman exhaled sharply, his arms wrapping around her small frame, his chin resting atop her head. He felt her tiny fingers clutching at his shirt, as if afraid he might slip away again.

"I'm here, Innu," he whispered, his voice raw. "I'm right here."

Innayat looked up, sniffling as she clung to him. "Papa... tell Bhaiya I'm fine," she whispered. "You love him more, I know... so tell him to come home soon."

There was no bitterness in her words, no complaint—just the simple logic of a child who believed love alone could bring her brother back.

Pashmina quietly slid off Shubman's lap, her movements gentle, almost unnoticed. She didn't speak, didn't interrupt—just stepped back, giving father and daughter the moment that belonged to them alone.

Shubman clutched Innayat to his chest, his grip desperate, as if anchoring himself to the one piece of his world that remained. A broken sob escaped him, muffled against her tiny shoulder, his body trembling with the force of everything he had tried to hold in.

Innayat, small but unwavering, pressed her cheek against his. Her little hands smoothed over his back in clumsy, comforting strokes—the way he had done for her countless times before. She didn't speak, didn't tell him not to cry. She only held him, as if her little frame could bear the burden of his sorrow.

Shubman felt two more arms wrap around him, warm and steady, pulling him into an embrace that carried decades of love and understanding. Without needing to look, he knew—it was his parents. The ones who had once held him through scraped knees and childhood fears, now holding their little boy as he wept for his own.

His mother's hand cradled the back of his head, her touch featherlight, as if she were soothing him to sleep like she had when he was a child. His father, always the quiet pillar of strength, rested a firm hand on his back, saying nothing—because some grief was beyond words.

And in that tangle of arms, grief, and quiet comfort, Shubman realized he wasn't carrying this alone.

A shuddering breath left him as he gripped his mother's shawl, his fingers curling into the familiar fabric like a lifeline. The ache in his chest didn't lessen, but for the first time in a month, it didn't feel like it would crush him completely.

Innayat shifted slightly in his hold, her tiny hands still pressed against his back. She pulled back just enough to look up at him, her big, searching eyes glistening. "Papa... when Bhaiya comes back, can we all go to the park again?" Her voice was soft, hopeful—not questioning if Aryaman would return, but when.

Shubman swallowed hard, his throat tight. His little girl wasn't asking for reassurances, wasn't asking for lies. She was simply holding onto the only truth she believed in—that her Bhaiya would come home.

He lifted a trembling hand, brushing her hair back with a gentleness he thought he had lost. "Yes, Innu." His voice barely held steady, but he nodded, forcing himself to breathe through the weight in his chest. "Yes, we will."

Innayat smiled, just a little, and nestled against him again, as if his answer was enough.

Pashmina, still kneeling close, reached for Shubman's hand, threading her fingers through his. No words passed between them, but he felt it—the silent promise.

We'll bring him home.

Virat and Shahneel stood at the doorway, watching the fractured pieces of their family cling to one another. A lump formed in Virat's throat, but he masked it with a scoff, crossing his arms.

"That idiot nephew of ours needs to see what his parents went through for him," he muttered, shaking his head. "How they fought the whole damn world just to keep him safe."

Shahneel exhaled sharply, her gaze never leaving her brother. "Then let's go drag him back before it's too late," she said, firm, determined. "Before he forgets where he belongs."