Delhi had never felt so quiet.
It had been months since the day of the tragedy in China — the terrorist attack that changed everything. The Sharma and Yadav homes, once full of laughter, had turned into halls heavy with silence. Each morning came with the same pain, the same unanswered questions: Where is Mukul? Is he safe? Is he alive?
The two grand villas that shared one veranda — the home built on love and pride — now carried the air of mourning. Balloons and ribbons from my fifth birthday still hung in corners, faded and forgotten. My sketchbooks still lie on the veranda table, each page filled with the stars I used to draw without knowing why. My mother couldn't bear to move them.
Inside the Sharma villa, General Raghav Sharma sat silently in the study each day, staring at the framed photograph of me in his uniform hat, saluting with clumsy fingers. The once-mighty commander, who had faced wars without shedding a tear, now bowed in silence before a pain he couldn't fight.
He had searched every way a man could. For two months, he had sent military teams to China and beyond — across borders, rivers, and mountains. Every connection he had called in, every authority he could move, yet nothing came. Not a single trace. "My soldiers always come home," he said once to my father. "But my grandson… my little soldier has gone beyond even my wars."
Upasana Sharma, my grandmother, prayed every morning at dawn. Reporters from around the country kept asking for her statement — the world-famous journalist whose grandson had vanished. But for the first time, she refused interviews. "The truth isn't ready," she said softly whenever anyone asked. "And until it comes to me, I won't write about it."
Sometimes she sat by the television, rewatching every old news clip from that day. Every explosion, every panic, every survivor's cry. Sometimes she thought she saw a glimpse of a small boy, bleeding and frightened, but then it would disappear among the smoke.
Rajesh Sharma, my father, buried himself in work again after three months of near madness. His government position gave him access to countless records. Every missing child report, every unidentified rescue photo, every possible lead — he followed personally. But nothing. "It's like he vanished from the face of the earth," he whispered one night to my uncle, Rajendra Sharma, who stood beside him, quiet and helpless.
My father stopped smiling. Even when Anand and Kavya, my elder brother and sister, tried to talk to him, he only nodded absently, lost in reports. His once strict discipline had softened into exhaustion.
My mother, Dr Priya Sharma (née Yadav), had stopped practising medicine for the first time in her life. Every night, she dreamt of holding my hand again, only for it to slip away. Her hospital colleagues tried to convince her to return to work, saying she could heal others while time healed her. But she only answered, "I can't heal anyone when my own heart is still bleeding."
Her side of the family—the Yadavs—suffered alongside her. Devendra Yadav, my maternal grandfather, whose speeches had once echoed across crowds, now sat on the joint veranda every evening without saying a word. The nation kept asking why its strongest political voice had gone silent, unaware that his only weakness had been taken from him.
Dr Ragini Yadav, my grandmother, continued her surgeries but secretly broke down whenever she saw a young patient. She told no one, but she often entered her operating room with tears she quickly wiped away.
The two families, once symbols of strength and fame, became prisoners of time.
In the evenings, the veranda—which had once been filled with children running and elders laughing over tea—now lay quiet. Only the sound of wind through bamboo filled the stillness. Sometimes, Anand would place my small football there, hoping I'd run out laughing, demanding to play. Kavya, my sister, lit a candle beside it every night. "For Dodo," she whispered. That had always been her pet name for me.
Every night before sleep, she looked up at the sky through her window and whispered, "I'll keep your sketchbook safe, Dodo. Come back soon."
Sometimes, both families gathered for dinner, but no one truly ate. The big table where twelve people once fought playfully over dessert now hosted quiet meals and half-finished plates.
Once, in a rare moment of hope, Acharya Raghunandan visited the houses again—the same astrologer who had told them my destiny five years ago.
He placed his old palm on my mother's hand and said quietly, "The child is not gone. He has crossed into the realm of fate. His mark—the Seven Stars—still burns under heaven's eye. When the stars form a circle once more, he will return."
Both families listened, torn between belief and heartbreak. My mother began searching the night sky each evening after that. When she saw seven stars aligned over Delhi in a faint curve, she broke down crying—half in faith, half in fear.
In those same nights, dreams sometimes came to both my grandfathers—visions so real they refused to speak of them loudly. They said they saw me, standing before a glowing tree, calling out softly before vanishing in light.
General Raghav once whispered to Devendra Yadav across the veranda, "If he truly lives somewhere beyond our world, then may every god guard him until we see him again."
And Devendra nodded, tears glimmering in his eyes. "He is born of two legacies—one of courage, one of compassion. The universe must have claimed him for something greater."
The families kept faith quietly. Every year, on my birthday, they placed lights along the veranda that connected the two houses, though none of them called it a celebration. It was a prayer, a promise.
One light for every star on his mark, they would whisper.
On the fifth year since my disappearance, the night sky glowed with seven perfect stars again—brighter than anyone had seen before. My mother stood by the window, feeling an unexplainable warmth touch her skin like a soft breeze.
Far across the ocean, at the same moment, on a mystical island rising beneath moonlight, a young guardian stirred awake under a silver tree, prepared to return.
And back in Delhi, under the glowing starlight, both families looked skyward with tearful eyes, their hearts whispering the same prayer:
"Come home, Mukul… our little star."