The hallway of High school smelled like floor wax and Axe body spray—a sensory combination that Aman hadn't experienced .
He walked toward his locker, keeping his head down. He was wearing his "Aman" costume: a hoodie, jeans, and a backpack slung over one shoulder. To the casual observer, he was just another student stressing about finals.
He reached locker 402. He dialed the combination—18-36-04—from muscle memory he didn't strictly possess. The lock popped open.
"Dude."
He took a breath, adjusted his face into what he hoped looked like 'tragic but holding it together,' and turned around.
Kevin and Rahul were standing there. They looked young. Kevin was wearing a shirt that said Bazinga! and Rahul was nervously chewing on the plastic cap of a pen.
"Hey, guys," Aman said. His voice sounded strange in his own ears—too steady.
There was an awkward silence. Kevin shifted his weight, looking at his sneakers. Rahul looked like he wanted to run away.
"We... uh," Kevin started, scratching the back of his neck. "We heard. About your parents. Man, that... that really sucks."
"Yeah," Rahul added, his voice cracking slightly. "We didn't know if you were coming back for finals. We thought maybe you'd moved."
"Just finishing up," Aman said softly. "Gotta get the credits."
Rahul nodded vigorously, grateful for the topic change. "Right. Right. Credits."
Then, the silence returned. They were fourteen-year-olds facing mortality; they had no idea what the script was and how to deal with it .
Kevin tried to bridge the gap the only way he knew how.
"So, uh," Kevin grinned weakly, punching Aman lightly on the shoulder. "Did you see the new Clone Wars trailer? Darth Maul is back with robot legs. It's insane. We were gonna go to Rahul's place and rewatch season four after the bio exam."
Aman felt a disconnect . But they are kid they only know how to behave like kid. they try to be more involve , they just see there friend.
But standing there, Aman just felt... tired.
"Robot legs," Aman repeated, forcing a small, tight smile. "That sounds... yeah. Insane."
Kevin narrowed his eyes slightly, sensing the lack of energy. He held up his hand.
"Sith Trooper shake?" Kevin asked.
Aman stared at the hand. The memory surfaced—pinky, thumb, twist, fist bump. It was a handshake they had created and performed a hundred times.
Aman raised his hand. He hooked his pinky. He fumbled the twist. The fist bump didn't connect cleanly; his knuckles grazed Kevin's wrist.
It was clumsy. Wrong.
Kevin pulled his hand back, looking confused. "You okay, man?"
"Yeah," Aman lied, gripping his backpack strap tighter. "Just... haven't slept much. The new house is... different."
"Right," Kevin said, sobering up. "Well, look, offer stands. Pizza at Rahul's. We can crush some n00bs on COD."
Aman looked at them—really looked at them. They were good kids. They were loyal friends to a boy who didn't exist anymore. Hanging out with them wouldn't be comforting; it would be a performance , he want no part in . It would be lying to their faces for three hours while pretending to care about a video game.
He couldn't do it. look like this guy are loosing there best friend.
"I can't," Aman said. "Family stuff. My foster dads... they have plans."
"Oh," Rahul said, disappointed. "Okay. Maybe next time?"
"Yeah," Aman said. "Maybe next time."
The bell rang.
"Good luck on Bio," Kevin said, turning to walk away. "Don't fail."
"You too," Aman said.
He watched them disappear into the crowd of students. He felt a profound sense of isolation in high school.
He closed the locker door. The metal clang sounded final.
One Hour Later - Outside the School
The exam had been easy. Ninth-grade biology was mostly memorization, and Aman's adult brain processed it without issue.
He walked out of the double doors and into the bright California sun. He didn't look back at the school. There was nothing there for him.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket. He scrolled past "Kevin" and "Rahul" in the contacts list.
He dialed a number he had saved under Legal.
It rang twice.
"Henderson & Associates," a receptionist answered.
"Hi," Aman said, his voice dropping the 'grieving teenager' act and settling into business casual. "This is Aman. I need to set up a meeting with Mr. Henderson and my caseworker, Mrs. Gable. As soon as possible."
"Okay, let me check the schedule," the receptionist said. "Is there a specific agenda?"
Aman walked toward the curb where he knew Mitchell would be waiting to pick him up.
"Yes," Aman said firmly. "I want to discuss about my plan, he told me contact him again."
receptionist " okay i will get it done"
He hung up.
A silver SUV pulled up to the curb. Mitchell rolled down the window, looking concerned.
"Hey," Mitchell said. "How was it? Did you see your friends?"
Aman opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. He buckled his seatbelt.
"Yeah," Aman said, looking forward. "I saw them."
"And?"
"And," Aman said, "I think I'm ready to go home now."
Mitchell looked at him, sensing the weight behind the words. He didn't push.
"Okay," Mitchell said softly. "Let's go home."
The conference room at Henderson & Associates was quiet, the air conditioned to a crisp, professional chill.
Aman sat at the head of the mahogany table. To his left sat Mitchell and Cameron, both wearing their "serious meeting" blazers. To his right sat Mr. Henderson, tapping a pen against a notepad. Across from him sat Mrs. Gable, the caseworker, looking weary but attentive.
"Thank you all for coming," Aman started. "I wanted to convene this meeting to clarify my intentions regarding my placement and my estate."
Mrs. Gable adjusted her glasses. "Aman, usually these discussions happen without the foster parents present, but the minor's input is typically... less formal."
"I understand," Aman said, folding his hands. "But given that I am fifteen, holding a substantial inheritance, and facing a pivotal life transition, I prefer to be direct."
He looked at Mitchell and Cam. "I want to formally pursue adoption with Mitchell Pritchett and Cameron Tucker."
Cam let out a small, involuntary squeak of joy. Mitchell reached over and squeezed Cam's knee to keep him composed.
"However," Aman continued, turning to Mr. Henderson, "I am aware that my financial situation is... unique. I do not want my inheritance to complicate this relationship. Therefore, I want to structure a trust that explicitly shields Mitchell and Cameron from any financial liability regarding my assets and my future. "
Mitchell nodded, looking impressed. "Aman, we never expected—"
"I know," Aman interrupted gently. "But I want it in writing. For everyone's peace of mind."
Mr. Henderson scribbled furiously. "Smart. Very smart. We can set up a blind trust structure."
"Next item," Aman said, . "The house. My parents' property. I want to list it ."
Mrs. Gable frowned. "Aman, that is a significant step. We usually advise waiting at least six months after a loss before liquidating major assets. You might regret selling your childhood home."
Aman paused. He looked down at the table, letting a shadow cross his face. He was acting, but the emotion behind it was grounded in the original Aman's memories.
"Mrs. Gable," he said softly. "Every time I think about that house... every time I go there... I don't see my childhood. I see the empty driveway where their car used to be. It's filled with ghosts. I can't heal if I'm anchored to a mausoleum. I just want... I just want to lay down the burden."
Mrs. Gable softened immediately. "Oh. I... I see. If it's causing you distress, then yes. We can petition for a sale."
"Thank you," Aman said, recovering his composure. "And with the proceeds from the sale, I have a proposal for reinvestment."
He looked at Mitch and Cam.
"I'd like to purchase the upstairs unit of the duplex."
Mitchell's eyes widened. "The... Mrs. Pasternak's unit?"
"She's moving to Florida," Aman said calmly. "I spoke to her yesterday while I was getting the mail. She's looking for a quick private sale to avoid listing fees."
"You... you spoke to Mrs. Pasternak?" Cam whispered, horrified. "That woman chases me with a hose if I sing too loud."
"She is quite cute," Aman shrugged. " with this i would have a room for me , as i growing up i would need a space of my on . i will be with you most of time ."
The room was silent. Mr. Henderson give a look of respect , a teenager who has lost is family with this much clear direction and holding is own rare. Mrs. Gable looked stunned.
"Aman," Mrs. Gable said, standing up. "Can I speak with you privately for a moment? Just us?"
Aman nodded. "Of course."
Mitchell, Cam, and Henderson stepped out into the hallway.
Mrs. Gable sat across from Aman, stripping away the bureaucratic layer. She looked at him with genuine concern.
"Aman," she said gently. "You are moving very fast. Selling the house? Buying condos? Pushing for adoption after less than a week? You are grieving, honey. This is... this is called 'flight to safety.' You're grabbing onto the first life raft you found. I'm worried you're getting attached too quickly, and if a relative does show up..."
Aman leaned forward. He dropped the business persona entirely.
"Mrs. Gable," he said, his voice raw. "You were at the funeral."
She paused. "Yes. I was."
"Who else was there?" Aman asked.
She didn't answer. She knew.
"Nobody," Aman answered for her. "My father worked for twenty years, and his boss checked his email during the eulogy. My mother had 'friends' who sent flowers but couldn't be bothered to show up. There was no family. No secret uncle. No godparents. i am guy who has beeb born and raised in America but i am still seen as a Indian . Now i am founding a family who is accepting me. "
He took a shaky breath.
"The only people who stood by me... the only people who cried for me... were two men who had known me for three days. That's not a 'life raft,' Mrs. Gable. That's family. so , what they were the first . i am not trying to window shop my foster parents , i feel this is a good decison i want to go with them ."
He looked her dead in the eye.
"I am terrified of a random relative showing up. I am terrified of being pulled out of this house and sent to a stranger just because they share some DNA. I need you to expedite the search. Close it out. I'm an American citizen. I would not adapt even if there was a relative . I'm fifteen. I know what I want. Please... let me stay."
Mrs. Gable stared at him for a long moment. She saw the fear behind the logic.
She sighed, closing her file.
"Okay," she whispered. "You're right. You're over twelve. You're a citizen. If you consent, and we can show 'diligent search' yielded nothing... we can move to Permanency Planning."
Aman felt a weight vanish from his chest. "Thank you."
When the door opened, Mitchell and Cam were pacing the hallway. They stopped, looking at Aman and Mrs. Gable with wide, anxious eyes.
"Well?" Cam asked, wringing his hands.
Mrs. Gable smiled—a real, warm smile. "We're moving forward. I'll file the motion to waive the remaining search period tomorrow."
Cam let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. He grabbed Mitchell's hand.
"Oh, thank god," Mitchell breathed, his shoulders slumping.
"We need to celebrate!" Cam announced, vibrating with energy. "A party! A Welcome Home party! We invite the whole family! I'll make appetizers! I'll use the confetti cannon!"
Aman smiled, watching them panic-plan the menu.
"Just... maybe no cumin in the appetizers?" Aman suggested.
"Deal!" Cam shouted. "Tiny quiches it is!"