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Chapter 2 - Ch -2 The Lamp and the Shadows

His father placed a gentle hand on his head.

"This was just a bad dream, Sumit. Go and sleep," he said softly.

Trusting his father's words, Sumit reluctantly went back to bed. He wasn't tired, but if his father said it, then it must be fine. For their satisfaction, he closed his eyes and tried to rest.

But sleep never came easily that night.

His father quietly took his mother out of the room. They were speaking in hushed tones, too low for Sumit to understand, yet there was something in their voices—weighty, troubled, unlike anything he had ever heard before.

Curiosity gnawed at him. Slowly, Sumit slipped out of bed and tiptoed towards the door, pressing his ear against it. He caught fragments—his father was gathering things, preparing to leave for some unknown place. The name was unclear to him, but the urgency was not.

Unable to hold back, Sumit pushed the door open.

"Papa… where are you going?"

Both of them froze, startled by his sudden question. His father quickly masked the fear in his eyes, placing his hand again on Sumit's head.

"Beta… it's nothing. Just some important work from the company. I'll be back soon."

The words were meant to reassure, but his father's eyes betrayed something else entirely. His mother handed him a bag. Then, in a way that felt heavier than usual, his father embraced her—an embrace that carried the weight of a final farewell.

Before leaving, he whispered only two words to her:

"Call him."

As soon as he stepped out into the night, his mother lit a small diya, its faint flame trembling in the dark, and sat before it in prayer.

"Maa… why are you praying so late? Don't you want to sleep?" Sumit asked, confused.

She pointed at the clock.

"What time is it?"

"Four o'clock," Sumit replied.

"And when do I usually begin my morning prayers?" she asked.

"Four a.m.," he admitted.

Her tone suddenly shifted, sharp as every morning,

"Then remember this—if you wake up late for school again, you will have to face me."

Startled by the familiarity of her scolding, Sumit quickly hurried back to his room. Yet when he peeked through the window, he felt a chill. The night seemed different—darker, heavier, and silent, as though the world outside was holding its breath.

His mother's voice cut through the stillness, "Are you going to sleep, or should I come there myself?"

He pulled the blanket over himself at once.

Two hours later, when her prayers ended, she came to check on him. Finding him fast asleep, she quietly made her way towards the basement. But her face… her face carried a deep sadness, every step weighed down by thoughts clawing inside her mind.

"Was this really the end of our time together?"

"Will they forgive me for my mistakes? Will they accept me again?"

Lost in those questions, she reached the basement. In a dim corner, she pushed aside old boxes and wiped away layers of dust. Beneath the floor, hidden under years of careful concealment, was a chain—barely noticeable, part of a secret mechanism that lifted a heavy cover.

The hollow beneath revealed itself. From within, she pulled out several boxes, all kept with painstaking care, as if even the earth conspired to guard her secret.

Opening them one by one, she searched desperately. Inside were old papers, torn drawings, faded books—yet none of what she sought. Her breath grew heavy, her hands trembling.

"It has to be here… it must be in one of these…"

At last, only one box remained. She opened it—and found an old button phone, worn down, barely in one piece. Its very shape looked dead, broken beyond use.

Her hands shook as she pressed the power button again and again, but it refused to turn on. Silence filled the room, so thick it felt alive.

Then suddenly, a faint golden glow shimmered around her hands. She closed her eyes, lips moving in a whisper too soft for human ears—an ancient prayer, a mantra that carried power. The light grew, delicate yet resolute, until finally she opened her eyes again.

She pressed the button once more.

This time, the screen lit up.

Hurriedly, she went into the contacts. There was only one number stored—just one word beside it: "Brother." The last call… four years ago.

Without hesitation, she dialed.

It rang only once.

The line connected.

For two long seconds, silence reigned on both sides. Her voice finally broke through, trembling, filled with fear.

"It's started… He is gone… and now… he will come for his son."

The words had barely left her lips when the phone suddenly burst with a sharp crackle and went dead. A jolt of fear surged through her chest, but relief quickly followed—nothing had harmed her.

Breathing heavily, she steadied herself and dragged out the old wooden boxes one by one, placing them outside. The night had slipped away, and by the time she was done, the first rays of dawn had already broken through. Birds began to chirp again, and the quiet streets stirred as people stepped out of their homes.

Only then did she feel her shoulders lighten. As if she already knew someone would come for them, or as if the contents were far too dangerous to be left behind, she began feeding the boxes to the flames one after another.

The fire roared, and she watched, eyes unblinking, until the last box caught.

A sleepy voice broke her focus.

"Ma… what are you doing?"

She turned sharply. Sumit was rubbing his eyes, standing by the gate, his hair messy, his face still heavy with sleep. She forced a smile.

"My little king… you're awake so early?"

"Early? Ma, it's already seven," he muttered, yawning.

Her eyes widened—she had nearly forgotten. School!

Snapping back to herself, she hurried to toss the last of the boxes into the fire.

"Go on, freshen up quickly. I'll prepare something for you to eat."

Without waiting for his reply, she rushed inside toward the kitchen.

Sumit lingered for a moment, watching the flames. That's when he noticed a page, fluttering on the ground, spared from the fire. He bent down and picked it up. His breath caught—it was a drawing. A drawing of a tree.

The same tree he saw every night in his dreams.

His heart raced, but he didn't say a word. Quietly, he slipped the page inside his notebook, hiding it before anyone could notice, and ran to wash up.

By the time he was ready, his mother handed him his lunchbox, water bottle, and a few coins for the day. Her voice was stern as she adjusted his collar.

"Don't wander off with your friends today. Come straight home after school. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mama. I will," he promised, and hurried off.

When he had gone, she returned to the courtyard to make sure the fire had consumed everything. Nothing remained but ash. She gathered it into a small pot and threw it into the dustbin.

As she turned, her eyes fell on the small lamp she had lit the night before. It was still burning.

A smile touched her lips. He is still alive.

Holding on to that fragile hope, she busied herself with her chores, her heart whispering silently—Maybe he will come back.

Meanwhile, Sumit's day passed like any other. He studied, laughed, and played with his friends as though nothing unusual had happened. When school ended, he went straight home, just as his mother had told him.

But as he entered, his steps slowed. His mother was packing hurriedly, clothes and belongings spilling out of bags. And standing beside her—was someone he hadn't seen in years.

"Uncle!" Sumit's face lit up. He ran forward, excitement bursting out of him. They embraced warmly; after all, his uncle had been the one who spoiled him with games and stories in his childhood.

His uncle chuckled, ruffling his hair.

"Go, change your clothes quickly. We'll be leaving soon."

"Leaving? Where?" Sumit asked, wide-eyed.

"Your clothes are drying upstairs. Go bring them down and get ready," his mother cut in, her voice sharper than usual.

Sumit hesitated, but then bolted upstairs.

The moment he was gone, his uncle's face hardened. He spoke in a low, urgent tone.

"He's here now. We have to leave before nightfall. Yesterday, the prayer saved you, but tonight… things will be different."

Her lips trembled, but she swallowed her fear, nodding. "Yes."

"Take him with you. I'll load the bags into the car."

She gathered the last of their things, locked the house, and stepped out. Sumit sat quietly in the back seat, glancing between his mother and uncle, sensing their unease but too young to name it.

As they drove away, his uncle's eyes flicked to the small lamp in her hands. She was still holding it carefully, shielding the flame.

He said nothing. But he understood—she still believed he would return.

And elsewhere…

Her husband had reached the place he had spoken of.

The land was barren, its soil pale and dry as if life had abandoned it long ago. The air was bitterly cold, and a suffocating darkness stretched in every direction. He pressed forward, his steps echoing hollowly against the earth.

At first, he thought it was the wind—but no. The faint sounds were voices. Far away, indistinct, words blurred by distance. Yet with every step, the voices grew clearer, sharper. Cries. Pleas. Screams. Dozens of them. Hundreds.

The sound closed in until it surrounded him. It was no longer whispers carried by the air—it was a chorus, angry and grieving.

"You were the reason for this…" they shrieked, fury shaking their tones.

"…and now you will join us!"

His chest tightened. The path ahead pressed down like a weight, heavier with every step. Yet he forced himself forward, clinging to the little clay lamp he carried—the same lamp his wife guarded miles away.

But then, the flame changed. It did not flicker like any natural fire. It bent. Unnaturally. As if pulled by something hidden in the black ahead.

His breath stilled. He could not see what waited in the shadows, but he felt it—watching, waiting.

He took one more step.

And the darkness stepped closer too.

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