Canora stood in front of Krishna's grave, the air still and muted around her.
The cemetery felt paused, as if sound itself had learned to keep distance.
Dev's father noticed her presence and turned back.
"Canora," he said, surprised. "I didn't expect you would come to my son's grave."
She lowered her eyes for a moment before answering.
"I couldn't stay away," she said quietly. "I can't return the favor Krishna did for me… but he helped me when those boys used to bully me. He was always kind to me."
Dev's father looked down at the gravestone.
"He was kind," he said. "Because of my training."
Canora let out a short laugh.
It came suddenly—uneven, mixed with tears, as if it escaped before she could stop it.
She wiped her face, embarrassed by the sound, then bent down and placed the flowers gently on the grave.
Her phone rang.
She checked the screen and sighed.
"My lunch break is over," she said. "They're calling me back."
She looked at Dev's father, gave a small nod, and left the grave site without another word.
The silence returned, unchanged.
At home, Dev's mother sat alone with a recipe book open in her hands.
She turned the pages slowly, not really reading—just searching.
After a pause, she stopped on a simple recipe.
Rice porridge.
She closed the book gently, as if the decision had already been made.
Routine was not healing.
But it held things together.
College hours ended without ceremony.
Dev stood near the classroom, speaking to a teacher.
"I wanted to ask about a doubt session," Dev said.
The teacher exhaled lightly.
"Didn't I tell you already?" he replied. "How many times do I have to say it—doubt sessions will be scheduled later, when the time comes."
"When the time comes?" Dev asked. "What do you mean by that?"
"Listen, Dev," the teacher said, his tone flat. "We can't schedule doubt sessions without talking to the students first."
Dev nodded.
"Okay. I'll talk to them."
The teacher gave no reply. Just a blank look.
Dev turned and left the classroom.
As he walked alone through the corridor, a voice called out from behind.
"Heyy, Dev!"
He froze for half a second.
Not him.
Dev didn't turn back.
He quickened his pace, then broke into a run, heading straight for his bike.
The engine started. The college gate disappeared behind him.
Morning did not ask permission.
Dev's father sat at the dining table, scrolling through figures on his phone.
Income. Deductions. Deadlines.
He adjusted his glasses, locked the screen, and stood.
Work did not wait for grief.
The market was louder than usual.
Dev's mother walked through the market with measured steps. Vegetables passed through her hands one by one, selected with care she no longer questioned.
She paused, then chose something warm. Something simple.
Routine was not healing.
But it was holding.
At college, lectures moved forward.
Dev wrote without looking up. Notes formed automatically—symbols, arrows, fragments that would make sense later.
When the bell rang, he closed his notebook before anyone else.
Students left in groups.
Dev left alone.
Evening settled into the house.
Shoes were placed near the door. Bags rested against the wall.
The smell of food filled the space quietly.
No questions were asked.
No answers were offered.
Normal life continued—carefully pretending nothing was shifting.
Elsewhere.
An airport terminal hummed with motion.
Announcements echoed. Wheels rolled. Conversations overlapped, then dissolved.
At the boarding gate, an air hostess scanned the queue, repeating the same practiced motion she had done a hundred times before.
Her eyes paused.
Just for a moment.
Not out of surprise.
Not out of curiosity.
As if something in front of her refused to be ignored.
She corrected herself, lifted her gaze, and handed over a boarding pass.
"Thank you."
The passenger took it and moved forward.
No rush.
No hesitation.
The line advanced.
Something distant had begun to move.