The morning breeze was soothing to the skin, but inside the apartment, the air felt thin and the stillness suffocating. Shattering the silence, Amarath tore through his room as a rising panic constricting his throat. His phone. He needed it. He flipped pillows, yanked open drawers, his movements growing more frantic with each passing second. Then, he saw it. Mocking him from the bedside table. He stared at it, a mixture of relief and frustration warring within him. He took a shaky breath and reached for it. His hand trembled, the silence in the room amplifying the pounding of his heart. He tried to dial Sachet, but his sweaty fingers slipped on the screen.

  When his grandmother entered the room with a bowl of porridge, the unsettling quiet seemed to shrink back from the warmth of her smile, like shadows retreating from the dawn. The comforting aroma of the porridge filled the air, she said “Finally, you woke up,”

  “Woke up from what?” Amarath asked, his voice thick with sleep. He blinked, trying to clear the fog from his mind. “And where’s Sachet?”

  She placed the porridge down calmly. “You were in coma for over two months.” Sat beside him, she with her soft but rough hands embraced his brushes, “The lightning struck you that day.”

  “Two months? And you’re not surprised that I woke up?” Amarath replied, his voice crackled but her touch easing his confusion.

  “I had faith in God,” she replied and informed. “Sachet and Kriti are in Varanasi, praying for your recovery.”

  Amarath leaned back, her words echoing in his mind, unsure if his experience was a dream—or something more. Just as his grandmother was about to leave, he asked, “Are you hiding something about my father or Grandfather?”

  She paused, her gaze shifting to the window, her voice barely audible. "There's someone else you should see," she murmured. "Krishnam. He was there that night too. With his girlfriend." She turned back to Amarath, her expression grave. "She didn't make it."

  Amarath's breath hitched. He stared at his grandmother, a cold dread creeping up his spine. His powers... had he...? The thought was too terrifying to contemplate. He remembered the fight, the raw power surging through him, the monster's crushing defeat. But... collateral damage? Had he been so consumed by rage that he'd failed to control the storm within? The question gnawed at him, a heavy weight in his gut. He knew he had to see Krishnam.

  The very next day, Amarath visited Krishnam, and his servant led him to the balcony. Staring out at the tennis court, Amarath saw Krishnam, still in his familiar fluffy sweatshirt, clutching his racket. But the familiar scene was jarringly wrong. Krishnam sat motionless in a wheelchair, his once vibrant eyes now dull and distant. The vibrant energy Amarath remembered had been replaced by a chilling stillness.

  Amarath hesitated as he turned away, his eyes numb, clenching his hand into a fist but just as he was about to leave, a voice stopped him.

  "You finally woke up," Krishnam greeted, his voice flat and devoid of its usual warmth. A faint, almost forced, smile touched his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes.

  Amarath closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to build the courage. He knelt beside Krishnam, his voice filled with concern. "What happened?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. He knows, doesn't he? he thought, his heart pounding in his chest. He avoided Krishnam's gaze, the guilt a physical weight pressing down on him.

  Krishnam kept his gaze fixed on the court, his voice hollow, like an echo in an empty room. "That day, I saw your uncle's car speeding toward the temple. I rushed toward it, but..." He trailed off, a visible tremor running through his body. "An unusual lightning struck both of us." He finally looked up, his eyes meeting Amarath's, but the gaze was filled with a pain that made Amarath flinch. Amarath, unable to bear the weight of that pain, looked away. "It... it took her," Krishnam whispered, his voice breaking. "And it left me like this."

  As the hour-long conversation faded into memory, Krishnam was left alone once more. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting an elongated, eerie shadow behind him. The city was swallowed by darkness, yet his room specially remained the only source of light, a cruel contrast to his pale, motionless face as he gazed at her photo. Behind him was his past glories of his tennis day

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  Suddenly, he hurled the picture across the room. A sharp thud echoed as it struck the trophies, but the silence soon swallowed it whole.

  With trembling hands and the last remnants of his strength, he struggled to stand. A fleeting, joyful smile flickered across his lips but only to vanish as his legs gave way, sending him crashing face-first onto the cold floor.

  The impact shattered the last of his hope. He screamed but only his own voice answered, bouncing back at him in the suffocating emptiness.

  Tears streamed down his face as he cried out for help. But there was no one. Not even a shadow.

  Then his phone vibrated. The sudden sound sent a chill crawling down his spine.

  A whisper, barely audible, slithered through the speaker:

  “Your revenge is mine now.”

  Krishnam pondered over the words, but the man standing under the streetlight gazed at Krishnam’s house. The flickering light illuminated a worn scar on his face as he walked away into the darkness, his silhouette swallowing the house.

  The lawn stretched out before Amarath, an endless expanse of dying color. He reached for his phone, his fingers numb. Sachet's number. No answer. Just the cold, empty silence of the unanswered call. Days passed, and his curiosity only deepened. But one night, unable to shake the feeling, he quietly made his way to his grandmother’s room and began searching through her belongings. In her cupboard, he discovered an old chest, covered in dust. With great care, he carried it into the hall and slowly lifted the lid. Inside were bundles of letters tied with faded ribbons, their edges frayed and yellowed with age. Beneath them lay a collection of photographs, their images softened by time, capturing moments frozen in the past. And tucked away in a corner, a few official-looking documents, their seals broken and their pages brittle. One photograph caught his attention, his grandfather and father stood together. But beside his grandfather stood a woman he didn't recognize, their arms around each other shoulder. She was beautiful, with a warm smile and kind eyes, but utterly unfamiliar. A wave of confusion washed over Amarath. Who was she? As he carefully examined the chest, his fingers brushed over a letter. The paper felt thin and fragile beneath his touch. The ink, though faded to a brownish hue, was still legible, the elegant script hinting at a bygone era. A faint scent of lavender, perhaps from the perfume she once wore, clung to the paper. He began to read... CRASH! The sharp, jarring sound of porcelain shattering echoed through the silent house. Amarath's breath hitched. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through his confusion. He moved cautiously towards the kitchen, his hand instinctively reaching for the knife hidden in his pocket. Who was it? What did they want? He gripped the knife tighter, his knuckles white, a surge of adrenaline mixing with his fear, hardening into resolve. He wouldn't be caught off guard. He froze as he saw a shadowy figure climbing through the window. Without hesitation, he lunged, a primal scream erupting from his throat as he launched himself at the intruder.

  The figure shouted, “It’s me, Amarath, it’s me!”

  Amarath paused, his grip tightening on the knife, his eyes narrowing. “Who?”

  The man, gasping, replied, “Sachet.”

  Amarath’s body went slack with disbelief. He immediately dropped the knife, wrapping his arms around Sachet, his heart racing. A wave of relief washing over him, Tears welled in his eyes, but he quickly wiped them away, the relief warring with a simmering anger.

  His voice was sharp, laced with annoyance. “Where were you?”

  Sachet, attempting to calm the tension, answered, “I was with your aunt in Varanasi.”

  Amarath frowned, the confusion still etched on his face. “Why was your phone unreachable?”

  Sachet met his gaze, his tone steady yet heavy with unspoken words. “Because I think everyone should know their roots,” he said quietly, placing a hand on Amarath’s shoulder. “Everyone. Including you.”

  Before Amarath could respond, a voice echoed from the stairs, sharp and demanding. “Who is here?” Grandma’s voice rang out, her footsteps heavy as she approached the kitchen.

  Amarath’s heart lurched in his chest. He quickly moved to intercept her, his breath shallow as he gently guided her back toward her room, offering a calm assurance.

  Moments later, he returned to the hall, only to be stunned. The space was empty. Sachet was gone. Panic gripped him as he searched frantically, his voice cracking as he called his name. “Sachet?!”

  A chill ran down his spine. He whispered to himself, “Was it another hallucination… or a dream?” His mind raced, the room suddenly feeling foreign, as though it no longer belonged to him.

  He darted to the kitchen, hoping to find some sign of his uncle. As he turned back toward the hall, his breath caught in his throat. There, standing in the shadows, was Sachet—silent, motionless, as if he had materialized from the very air.

  Startled, Amarath jumped back, his heart pounding in his chest. “What the hell?”

  Sachet shot him a disapproving glance. “Watch your language.”

  Amarath, still trying to steady his breath, took a step back, his voice shaky. “What now?”

  Sachet’s expression hardened, his eyes narrowing with purpose. “The temple,” he replied, his tone serious. After a brief pause, as if weighing his words carefully, he added, “I’ll go first. You follow in a while.”

  Amarath frowned, his confusion deepening. “Why?”

  Sachet’s eyes flickered with caution, his gaze sharpening. “It’s… complicated,” he said, his voice low. “It’s better this way. Trust me. Go in a while. And be careful.”

  Amarath should be more in control rather than letting his fate take control of him.