The village house felt heavier than usual that night.
Abhi Damai sat on the old wooden chair near the doorway, staring at the dark courtyard where he and his brothers once played. The mountains beyond the fields were quiet, as if even they were listening to his thoughts.
"Why… didn't I see it?" he whispered.
His mind went to MK, his youngest brother. The boy he had loved more than anyone, the one he always thought he understood.
"I thought I knew him… I thought he was strong," Abhi muttered. "I believed in his dreams, in the artist he wanted to become. I never thought… I could have missed something."
His hands trembled as he pressed them against his face.
"I was busy… a family, work, responsibilities. I thought he would understand. I thought he would wait."
The night wind drifted through the open window, brushing against the quiet lanterns.
"MK… did you feel alone? Did I not notice? Did I fail you when you needed me the most?" Abhi's voice broke softly.
The courtyard looked smaller now, empty of laughter. Memories of their childhood echoed faintly.
"I may have provided for him… but did I ever truly see him?" Abhi whispered, more to himself than anyone else.
His chest tightened. Regret pressed down like the weight of the mountains surrounding their village.
And in that silence, the real story begins—
not with words spoken,
not with events seen,
but with what it truly means to care… and to notice, before it's too late.