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.