Smitha ran blindly towards the safety of the wall. Her breath ragged, sweat stinging her eyes, blurring her vision. Each time she wiped her face, the momentary darkness sent a fresh wave of panic through her. But no matter how hard she tried to blink it away, she couldn’t escape the image burned into her mind—Kabir, lying motionless on the ground.

The wind had quieted, but her pulse still pounded in her ears. Ahead, the white walls of the housing quarters loomed, a barrier between them and the nightmare they had just escaped.

Ayisha and Arjun rushed inside first, turning back just in time to see Smitha stumble in after them.

“What was tha—Haaah!” A sharp gasp escaped them both as they took in the sight before them.

Smitha didn’t stop. She couldn’t. She didn’t know if she was running from the wind, the memory, or herself.

“Smitha! Slow down!” Ayisha’s voice cut through the fog in her mind.

Before Smitha could react, arms wrapped around her—steady, grounding. Ayisha held her close, her own body trembling as though barely containing the fear within. Yet, despite the quiver in her embrace, her grip was firm—an anchor against the storm raging inside them both. Before she knew it, Smitha started wailing into Ayisha’s arms.

While soothing Smitha, Ayisha looked over at Arjun. His eyes were wide with panic, his face as pale as a sheet of paper. He seemed frozen, unable to bear the sight of Smitha in such a state.

“Arjun!” Ayisha called out over Smitha’s cries. “She’s inconsolable. Let’s take her back to her house—it’s just around the corner.”

Arjun nodded slowly, words failing him. His gaze drifted towards the gate, as if expecting Kabir to appear any moment.

“He must have gone home,” Ayisha said, forcing a steadiness into her voice. “It’s right around the corner. We shouldn’t stay here like this.” She glanced down at the cuts on her own palms, the sting of reality sinking in. The sight of three bruised teenagers—one wailing uncontrollably—was not something to be showcased to the ever-watchful gossipmongers.

Together, they moved towards Smitha’s house—a lone, tiny cottage at the corner of the street. Smitha, lost in her own world, clung tightly to Ayisha. Her face remained buried against Ayisha’s back as they walked. The roads were eerily silent, as though the neighbourhood was still lost in slumber.

Once inside the comfort of her home, Smitha finally let go of Ayisha. Her eyes darted to the empty sofa. She had expected her parents to be in the living room, but the space was empty. “It seems they’ve finally retreated to their bedroom,” she muttered.

Ayisha took a step closer. “Huh? I didn’t catch that,” she asked gently.

“They must be asleep in the bedroom,” Smitha explained, her voice still low as she regained her senses. “Dad was awake all night. Even when I left the house.”

“As much as I don’t want to disturb their long-awaited sleep, they’re the only ones who can help us now,” Ayisha said firmly. “Let me go get them. Why don’t you both sit down?”

With vacant soulless gazes, Smitha and Arjun sank slowly onto the sofa. Ayisha, on the other hand, moved purposefully towards the bedroom. The path was familiar—she had visited this house a thousand times before—but each step felt heavier, as if the weight of the dawn clung to her feet.

Ayisha knocked on the half-closed bedroom door before pushing it open without waiting for a response. Smitha’s mother lay in a deep sleep, while her father stirred awake the moment the door creaked.

“Uncle Suresh, it’s me. Don’t worry—we’re fine,” Ayisha whispered.

The curiosity on Suresh’s face morphed into panic the moment he saw Ayisha. He sprang from the bed and rushed towards her. “What happened?” he asked, his voice low as he guided her out of the bedroom and into the hallway. He gently shut the door behind him, making sure his wife remained undisturbed.

Ayisha couldn’t find the words. Instead, she pointed down the hallway towards the living room. Horror dawned on his face as he took in the scene before him. In that moment, nothing else existed for him but Smitha. He darted to her side, kneeling in front of her, and cupped her bruised hands gently. “My princess, what happened?” His voice trembled.

Smitha was jolted back to reality by her father’s gentle words. His eyes brimmed with tears, his chapped lips quivering as he struggled to speak. She had never seen him like this—so vulnerable, so broken.

Unable to bear the sight, Smitha reached out to comfort him. “Don’t worry—” Her voice caught in her throat as her gaze fell on her own hands. Blood-red, marred by cuts and bruises, her skin was barely visible beneath the crimson.

Her chest rose and fell in short, uneven breaths as panic clawed at her throat. She looked around, searching for the mirror that hung in the living room. When her reflection came into view, she froze. Her face was a shattered painting, red streaks marring the canvas of her skin. What she had thought were beads of sweat were, in fact, blood, trickling down her face.

She turned back to her father, her voice a fractured whisper. “I don’t know. There… Kabir…”

“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” he murmured, pulling her into a tight embrace. His arms trembled as he held her, as if he could shield her from whatever nightmare had followed her home.

“What about Kabir?” Arjun asked, his voice breaking the silence he had held all day.

Smitha pulled away from her father’s embrace, her hollow eyes meeting Arjun’s. She shook her head slowly, each movement weighed down by grief. “He didn’t survive.”

“No, no, no, no…” Arjun’s eyes widened, a storm of shock and denial flashing across his face. He crumpled to the sofa, his sobs muffled by his own hands.

“Don’t worry. Let’s take care of your wounds first,” Suresh said gently. He guided the dumbstruck Smitha to the bathroom, turning on the shower to wash away the blood and grime. A quiet relief washed over him as the water carried away the crimson streaks, revealing only shallow wounds beneath—wounds that had already stopped bleeding.

Meanwhile, Ayisha appeared in the doorway with a first aid kit in one hand and a large bottle of hydrogen peroxide in the other. She wasn’t surprised to find the kit well-stocked. In this house, it always was. Smitha had been an athlete for as long as she could remember—trained in martial arts and boxing. Cuts and bruises were routine for her.

It always amused Ayisha how different Smitha was from her parents—both academics, while she thrived in the ring.

Suresh dabbed peroxide onto her wounds with slow, deliberate movements. As he cleaned her hands, he carefully extracted a shard of red glass, shaped like a leaf. Turning it over in his fingers, he noticed its lethally sharp edges.

Struggling to make sense of it, he turned to Ayisha. “What happened?”

Ayisha, with a semblance of composure, recounted the entire ordeal. Her voice remained steady, but her trembling hands betrayed her.

As Ayisha recounted the story, he looked at Smitha with a saddened expression. He was unable to see his strong-willed daughter speechless in sorrow.

When Ayisha finished, he turned back to Smitha, his expression torn between dread and hope. “And Kabir?”

“I… I don’t think he survived.” Smitha’s voice wavered, her words tangled with the haunting images of Kabir’s lifeless body. “He was on the ground, unmoving. I couldn’t check…” Her voice cracked into a sob before she could finish.

Her father knelt beside her, his hands gentle on her shoulders. “Don’t worry. I’ll call the police. We’ll go and check, alright?” His tone was firm yet soothing, an anchor in the storm of their fear.

Smitha nodded. She hugged her father, tears slipping down her cheeks.

***

A while later, Suresh picked up his phone and dialed a saved contact—”Prakash.” As the phone rang, his eyes swept across the living room, where the three kids sat watching something on TV. He had cleaned and bandaged their wounds, made them a light breakfast, and settled them down. Hopefully, the television would serve as a distraction, if only for a little while.

“Hello,” came the voice on the other end.

“Prakash, it’s me,” Suresh said. His voice was steady, but there was a weight behind it. “Put your police hat on—I have something important to tell you.” Without wasting another second, he recounted everything that had happened.

There was a brief silence before Prakash finally spoke. “I’ll check out the situation. It looks like things have already begun.” He sighed. “Unfortunate that your daughter got caught up in this,” his words carried a quiet understanding, as though this was not entirely unexpected.

Suresh exhaled, his grip tightening around the phone. “Yeah… Looks like it. I’ll make sure this ends here.”

His words carried an edge. With nothing more to say, gentlemen ended the call.

— To be continued…