The house felt bigger after Mahi was gone.
Not because space had increased—but because something that once filled it had vanished. Her slippers still rested near the door. Her water bottle stood half-full beside the window. No one moved them.
No one dared.
Shiva woke up the morning after the body was found and lay still, staring at the ceiling fan as it turned in slow, uneven circles. He counted the rotations. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four.
His mother hadn't slept.
He could hear it in the way she moved—slow, uncertain, as if every step required permission. The kitchen utensils clinked softly. A pot boiled over and hissed, forgotten.
"Shiva…" she called weakly. "Come eat something."
He sat up.
"I'm not hungry."
"You have to eat," she said, trying to sound firm, failing. "Just a little."
He walked out anyway.
The rice tasted like nothing. He chewed because that's what people did when food was in their mouths. Across from him, his mother stared at Mahi's empty spot on the floor.
"She hated plain rice," she murmured suddenly. "Always complained. Wanted pickle… or curd…"
Her voice cracked.
Shiva lowered his gaze.
His father returned late that evening, eyes red, shoulders bent. He didn't speak much anymore. When he did, his voice sounded like it had been scraped raw from the inside.
"The police said… it was an accident," he said quietly, not looking at anyone.
No one replied.
"What kind of accident?" Shiva asked.
His father flinched—just slightly.
"A fall. Poor lighting. They said children wander there all the time."
Shiva nodded.
Inside his chest, something twisted—not violently, not loudly. Just enough to settle into place.
At school, teachers spoke gently to him.
"If you need time—"
"Take care of your parents—"
"She was such a sweet girl—"
His classmates avoided his eyes. Some whispered. Some offered awkward condolences. A few tried jokes, then immediately regretted it.
One boy from his class, Arjun, sat beside him during lunch.
"Hey… if you want, you can come play cricket with us today," he said carefully. "Just… to get your mind off things."
Shiva shook his head. "Maybe later."
Arjun hesitated. "If you need anything… you know…"
"I know."
He didn't mean it.
The funeral was held three days later.
The air was thick with smoke and murmured prayers. Neighbors gathered, faces solemn, voices low. Some cried openly. Some whispered theories they would never say aloud.
"She was too young…"
"Such bad luck…"
"God's will…"
Shiva stood beside his father, dressed in white, hands clenched at his sides. His mother collapsed twice—once when she saw the body, and once when the fire was lit.
Flames rose.
Heat pressed against his skin.
Mahi's face disappeared behind smoke and ritual.
This was it, they said. Closure.
Shiva watched until the very end.
That night, relatives filled the house. Cups of tea. Forced conversations. Advice that sounded like commands.
"You're the man of the house now."
"Be strong for your parents."
"Time heals everything."
An uncle rested a hand on Shiva's shoulder. "Forget it, beta. These things happen."
Shiva looked up slowly.
"Do they?" he asked.
The uncle laughed nervously. "Life is cruel sometimes."
Shiva said nothing.
Later, when the house finally emptied, silence returned—heavier than before.
His parents slept, exhausted by grief.
Shiva lifted the floor tile.
The laptop hummed to life.
He didn't rush.
He didn't rage.
He pulled up everything he had collected before—the dead zones, the erased footage, the reports that ended too cleanly. He cross-checked them with municipal records, contractor logs, night-shift rosters.
Patterns emerged.
Not answers.But intent.
Someone had decided not to look too closely.
Someone had signed off.
Shiva leaned back, eyes hollow, reflection staring back at him from the cracked screen.
"They closed the case," he whispered.
"So I'll open it."
Not for justice.
Not yet.
For truth.
Outside, the city slept peacefully—unaware that somewhere in a small, dark room, a boy had stopped believing in accidents.