His dad's hand settled on his head. Heavy. Warm. The kind of touch that was supposed to make everything okay.
"It was just a nightmare, Sumit. Go back to sleep."
Sumit nodded because that's what you did when your dad told you something. You believed him. He crawled back under his blanket, the sheets cold against his skin, and closed his eyes even though he wasn't tired anymore. Even though his heart was still racing.
He heard the door click shut. Then voices—quiet, urgent—coming from the other room. He couldn't make out the words, but he could hear the tone. That wasn't the sound of his parents talking about bills or what to make for dinner. That was the sound of something wrong.
He should stay in bed. He knew that.
He got up anyway.
The floor was cold under his bare feet. He crept to the door and pressed his ear against it, trying to catch anything, any word that would explain why his chest felt so tight. Fragments drifted through—his dad was packing something, going somewhere, some place whose name got swallowed by the quiet. But the urgency in his voice came through crystal clear.
Sumit couldn't take it anymore. He pushed the door open.
"Papa... where are you going?"
They both froze. His dad's eyes went wide for just a second—actual fear, raw and real—before he covered it up with a tired smile. His hand found Sumit's head again.
"It's nothing, beta. Just some urgent work at the company. I'll be back before you know it."
The words sounded practiced. Rehearsed. And his dad wouldn't look at him, kept glancing at his mom as she handed him an old leather bag. Then he pulled her into a hug that lasted way too long. The kind of hug you give someone when you're not sure you'll see them again.
When he let go, he whispered something against her ear. So quiet Sumit almost missed it.
"Call him."
Then he was gone. Just like that. Out the door, into the night, leaving nothing but the echo of his footsteps.
His mom moved immediately. She went straight to the little prayer corner, lit a diya—the flame small and shaky in the darkness—and sat down in front of it. Her lips started moving silently.
"Maa... why are you praying now? It's still nighttime."
She pointed at the clock without looking at him. "What time does it say?"
"Four o'clock."
"And what time do I start my morning prayers every single day?"
"Four a.m.," he mumbled.
Her voice snapped into that familiar strictness, the mom-voice that meant business. "Then remember that. And if you're late for school again, you'll have me to answer to."
The sudden shift back to normal threw him off. He went back to his room but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Really off.
He looked out his window. The darkness outside didn't look right. It was too thick, too heavy, like something solid pressing against the glass. The usual night sounds—dogs barking, the refrigerator humming—were just... gone. Like the world was holding its breath.
"Are you in bed, or do I have to come in there?"
He dove under his blanket.
Two hours later, after her prayers finished, she came to check on him. He was finally asleep. She stood there looking at him, and something in her face just... broke. All that sternness melted away and what was left looked wrong. Scared. Old.
Every step toward the basement felt heavy.
Is this the end? Will they forgive me? Will they even let me back?
The basement smelled like dust and old cardboard. She shoved boxes aside until she found it—a faint iron ring set into the concrete floor. Hidden in plain sight for years. She pulled, and a section of floor lifted up.
Cold air rushed out from the space below. She reached in and pulled out several wooden boxes, handling them like they were made of glass.
Her hands shook as she opened them. One by one, frantically searching through yellowed papers, strange drawings, books with cracked spines. Her breathing got faster, more panicked.
"It has to be here... it must be..."
Only one box left. Small. Plain. She pried it open.
Inside was an old button phone. Ancient. The screen was dark, the plastic cracked. It looked dead.
She pressed the power button. Nothing.
Again. Nothing.
Then something happened. A golden light started glowing around her hands—faint at first, then brighter, like captured sunlight weaving through her fingers. She closed her eyes and her lips moved, forming words in a language that sounded old. Really old. The light wrapped around the dead phone, delicate but somehow unbreakable.
She pressed the button one more time.
The screen flickered. Came to life.
Her fingers shook as she opened the contacts. Only one number. One word: Brother.
The last call was from four years ago.
She hit dial. It rang once. A click. Someone picked up.
Two seconds of silence that felt like forever.
When she finally spoke, her voice came out broken. Terrified.
"It's started... He took him... and now... now he's coming for his son."
The phone exploded in her hand—blue sparks crackling across the screen before it died completely. She flinched, waiting for pain, but nothing happened. The backlash hadn't hurt her.
She let out a shaky breath. Relief. Fear. Both at once.
She hauled the boxes out of the basement. By the time she finished, the suffocating darkness outside had started to fade into grey pre-dawn. Birds began chirping. Tentative. Nervous.
Only then did her shoulders relax. Like she knew help was coming. Or maybe she just couldn't carry the weight anymore.
She started a fire in the courtyard. Fed the boxes to it one by one. Watched her secrets turn to ash.
"Ma... what are you doing?"
She spun around. Sumit stood by the gate, half-asleep, his hair sticking up everywhere. She forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"My little king... you're up already?"
"Already? Ma, it's seven o'clock," he mumbled through a yawn.
Her eyes went wide. Seven. School. She'd completely lost track of time.
She tossed the last of the boxes into the flames. "Go get ready. Quickly. I'll make you something to eat."
She hurried inside without waiting for an answer. Sumit stood there watching the fire, and that's when he saw it.
A single page. Floating near his feet. Somehow the flames had missed it.
He picked it up and his heart stopped.
It was a drawing. Of a tree.
The same tree from his dream.
Every detail exactly the same—the massive branches, the way they spread out like they were holding up the sky. Everything.
His hands started shaking but something told him to stay quiet. Don't say anything. Not yet. He slipped the page into his school notebook and ran to get ready.
Later, as she handed him his lunchbox, her voice was sharp. Urgent. "Come straight home after school. No wandering off with your friends. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, Mummy."
He ran.
Once he was gone, she went back to the fire. Made sure nothing was left but ash. Swept it all into a clay pot and threw it away. As she turned to go inside, her eyes caught on the diya from earlier.
It was still burning.
A small, broken smile crossed her face. He's still alive.
She clung to that tiny flame like a lifeline and started her chores, the same prayer running through her head on repeat: Maybe he'll come back. Maybe.
School was weird. Sumit went through the motions—reading, eating lunch, playing cricket—but his mind kept drifting back to that drawing. The tree. His dad leaving in the middle of the night. His mom burning boxes of secrets.
He kept his promise. Came straight home the moment school ended.
But when he walked through the gate, he stopped dead.
His mom was packing. Clothes, dishes, random household stuff thrown into bags in a chaotic mess. And standing next to her was someone he hadn't seen in years.
"Uncle!"
Pure joy exploded in his chest. He dropped his bag and ran, throwing himself into the man's arms. This was the uncle from when he was little—the one who gave piggyback rides and told crazy stories and made everything fun.
His uncle laughed, deep and warm, and ruffled his hair. "There's my champion. Go on, get changed. We're leaving soon."
"Leaving? Where?"
"Your uniform is drying on the roof. Go get it and pack a bag," his mom cut in. Her tone left no room for questions.
Sumit hesitated, wanted to ask more, but one look at her face sent him running upstairs.
The second he was out of earshot, his uncle's smile vanished. His face went hard. Serious.
"He's in the city," he said, voice low and urgent. "We have to be gone before sunset. The prayer protected you last night but he knows you're here now. Tonight will be different."
Her lips trembled but she nodded. Just once. Sharp.
"Yes."
"Take Sumit. I'll get the bags in the car."
She grabbed the last of their things, her hands moving fast, desperate. After locking up the house—the only home she'd ever known—she stepped out onto the street. Sumit was already in the back seat, confused, looking between the two adults, sensing something was very, very wrong.
As they pulled away, his uncle's eyes dropped to her hands. She was holding the small clay diya. Protecting its flame from the wind with cupped palms. Focused entirely on keeping that tiny light alive.
He didn't say anything. He understood.
It was the last piece of faith she had left.
Miles and miles away, her husband had arrived.
The land was dead. Not dying—dead. The soil was pale and cracked, drained of everything. The air was thin and cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. It was the cold of absence. Of something fundamental missing from the world.
Darkness pressed in from every direction. Thick. Suffocating.
He walked forward, his boots crunching on the lifeless ground.
At first he thought it was wind. A high, thin whistling. But it wasn't wind.
It was voices.
Distant at first. Ghostly whispers, words blurred together. But with every step, they got louder. Clearer. Sharper. Until it wasn't whispers anymore—it was screaming. Dozens of voices. Hundreds. All shrieking at once, crashing over him from every direction.
You did this to us...
...and now your debt comes due!
The air got heavy. Hard to breathe. But he pushed forward, clutching the small clay lamp in his hand—the twin to the one his wife was guarding in a moving car miles away.
Then the flame did something impossible.
It didn't flicker. Didn't dance. It bent. Stretched horizontally like something was trying to suck the light right out of the wick. It strained toward the darkness ahead.
His breath caught.
He couldn't see what was waiting in the shadows.
But he could feel it watching.
He took one more step forward.
And the darkness took a step to meet him.