The day ended with exhaustion and stress clinging to my skin. I slowly closed the rusted shutter of my private detective agency. As the lock clicked shut, it felt like I was locking away yet another hopeless day.
I walked back through the cold, dark streets, the wind stinging my face. As much as I hated returning to that house—it wasn’t home, just a shelter—I had nowhere else to go. I had to be there for Priya.
As I stepped inside, my aunt greeted me with her usual smirk. She blocked my way and stretched out her hand.
“How much did you earn today?” she asked, like a debt collector more than family.
I sighed. “No one came in. Not a single client.”
Her expression turned sharper. “Dev, what do you even think of yourself? Just because your uncle is soft-hearted, you think you can survive on our money forever? You’re good for nothing! I told him not to waste his resources on you, but no—he still does. And I have to suffer because of that. I’m not your maid, and your sister certainly doesn’t bring anything to this house either.”
That was it. My patience snapped.
“Don’t worry,” I said, my voice rising. “The moment I have enough to afford even a small two-bedroom apartment, I’ll leave—with Priya.”
I stormed off to my room, skipping dinner, too drained to fight anymore. I threw myself on the bed, staring at the ceiling, thoughts tumbling in my head.
I thought I could make a name for myself. Dev Chowdary, the private detective—better than any crooked government agent. But here I was, barely making ends meet. Working alone, with no backup, no trust fund, no contacts. Just dreams.
The door creaks open. My cousin, Sunil, stepped in with a plate of food in his hand.
“You know how Mom is,” he said, placing the plate beside me. “Don’t take it to heart. And don’t skip meals—not for her. If not for yourself, eat for Priya. She can’t stand seeing you like this.”
He was right.
I nodded, gave him a tired smile, and thanked him. After finishing the food, I checked on Priya. She was already asleep, curled up peacefully under her blanket.
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I sat beside her for a moment, brushing the hair from her face.
Such a poor soul.
She had so many dreams. When she was younger, she used to talk endlessly about becoming a model. She loved the idea of the spotlight—bright, dazzling, far from the darkness we lived in.
But she couldn’t walk anymore.
The doctors said it was impossible to fix her legs. But I never gave up. I did everything I could to make her happy—to give her even a fragment of the life she deserved.
She’s the reason I’m still breathing.
That night… the night our parents died… itill haunted me. I still get nightmares.
But I never told Priya. I couldn’t let her carry my pain.
I made sure her blanket was tucked in, kissed her forehead softly, and switched off the light.
Rain lashed against the windows.
Screams tore through the night.
I was a child again. Awake. Shivering. Something was wrong.
“Maa?” My voice barely came out.
The hallway glowed dim yellow. I stepped toward it.
There she was—my mother—arms outstretched, shielding me from something.
“Don’t look, Dev,” she begged. “Close your eyes.”
But I couldn’t.
Behind her, my father. A knife. His face twisted—pain, rage, fear.
And then—they stabbed each other.
One second. One breath. One death too many.
Blood everywhere. Their bodies crumpled. Silent.
In the corner, Priya cried. Her leg was crushed under debris.
“Dev…”
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream.
I just stood there. A little boy in the middle of a nightmare he didn’t understand.
I woke up gasping. My heart slammed against my ribs like it wanted to escape.
The room was dark. My shirt was drenched in sweat.
It had been years. And yet, the memory played like a broken record—never revealing the full story. Only pain. Only blood.
I never knew why they did it.
Maybe I never will.
But somehow, deep down, a part of me always blamed myself.
Like I should’ve done something.
Like I should’ve stopped it.
