The grand villa stood silent that night — every clock ticking in unison, every light dimmed to a tired glow. The air inside felt heavy, as though even the walls mourned the man lying within.
In the center of a wide, polished room, Lieutenant Vikram lay weak upon his bed. The tall curtains swayed softly in the night breeze that seeped through the half-open balcony doors. The faint scent of sandalwood incense filled the space, mixing with the sterile hint of medicine. Each breath he drew sounded shallower than the last, his chest rising in fragile rhythm.
Once a man whose voice commanded entire rooms, Vikram now struggled even to lift his head. His eyes — pale, distant — stared toward the ceiling, watching the faint reflection of the chandelier light above him. A flicker of life still lingered there, a glimmer of hope that refused to die.
"Where… are my sons?" he whispered, voice cracked with fatigue.
The butler standing beside him leaned close. He was an old man, yet disciplined in posture and speech — the kind of servant who had lived his life in service, and with pride. His expression was composed, but his tone trembled softly.
"Sir, they are on their way," he said, almost in a whisper.
For a long moment, silence filled the villa — the kind of silence that carries its own heartbeat. Then suddenly, it was broken.
A sharp ring echoed through the hall — the landline, its shrill tone cutting through the still air like a blade. The butler hesitated only a second before leaving the bedside and walking briskly to the corner table. He lifted the receiver.
"Hello?"
A muffled voice responded from the other end, distorted slightly by the static.
> "I'm sorry… I can't come right now. Something urgent has come up. But the other two masters are on their way. Please… tell Father."
The line went dead. The butler stood still for a moment, his jaw tightening. He returned to the bedside, his steps slow and heavy.
"Sir…" he began carefully, "it seems the eldest master, Shaurya, won't be able to come — some unforeseen circumstances. But young Master Ishan and Master Arav are on their way. They should be here any moment now."
Vikram's eyes fluttered. His lips parted, but no sound came out. A faint breath escaped him — more emotion than voice — and his gaze drifted toward the door, as though waiting, hoping.
Outside, the wind rustled the trees surrounding the villa. Then, from a distance, came the screech of tires cutting through the night.
Moments later, hurried footsteps echoed through the marble hall. The heavy doors burst open, and Ishan, the youngest, stumbled inside. His eyes were red, his breaths uneven, his face wet with tears he hadn't noticed. The sight of his father lying still on the bed froze him in place for a heartbeat — then he ran forward and fell to his knees beside him.
"Papa!" he cried, clutching Vikram's frail hand. "Papa, I'm here! Please… please open your eyes!"
Behind him entered Arav, slower, silent, his expression unreadable. His eyes moved across the room — from the motionless figure on the bed to his weeping brother on the floor. His hands trembled slightly as memories flashed before him — his father's laughter, his commands, the steady weight of his presence. The room suddenly felt too quiet, too cold.
Vikram's eyes opened one last time. A weak smile crossed his lips — one of peace, not relief. And as his gaze lingered on his sons, the tension in his body eased. The hand that Ishan held grew still… and slipped free.
"Pa… papa!" Ishan shook him, voice breaking. "Papa, wake up! Please! Don't leave!"
The butler stepped forward quietly, his old eyes glistening. He leaned close, checked for breath, and then turned to Arav. His words came slow and low — barely a whisper.
> "Young master… it seems Lieutenant Vikram is no more."
The room fell silent again.
Arav's heart sank. His knees weakened beneath the crushing weight of reality. He dropped beside his brother, unable to speak as tears welled in his eyes. For a moment, he tried to stay strong, but the dam broke. His lips trembled, his chest heaved, and his grief spilled freely — silent, raw, unbearable.
With what little composure he could gather, he turned to the butler.
"Take Ishan out," he said, his voice hoarse and cracking.
The butler nodded solemnly and stepped closer. His hand rested gently on Ishan's shoulder.
"Master Ishan… please. Stand up, my boy. Let your father rest. He's in a better place now."
But Ishan didn't move. His small hands clung to his father's still arm, refusing to let go. His sobs filled the room — echoing off the marble floors, bouncing off the high ceiling, reaching every corner of the vast, grieving villa