"Some things aren't meant to be mourned — only buried so they stop poisoning the ones who lived through them."
Shadows in the Past
It had been years since the accident.
But Vikran still remembered the day his father died — not in sadness, not in pain… but with something even heavier:
Nothing.
He remembered the sound of the knock at the door. A stranger with slurred words. A soaked figure in the ditch by the road. A broken bottle nearby.
The village whispered that his father had stumbled in front of a delivery truck after drinking too much. That the man didn't even notice his own shoelaces were untied.
And Vikran… hadn't cried.
Not even once.
A Home Without Thunder
Before the accident, life was never silent.
It wasn't music that filled the house. It was yelling, smashing, curses.
His father's voice was a thundercloud — loud, angry, always soaked in alcohol.
He would come home with nothing — not food, not money, not love.
Only rage.
Sometimes the shouts became fists. Sometimes they became silence that lasted for days.
Vikran learned to walk quietly.
To breathe gently.
To stay invisible.
His sister was too young to remember much.
But Vikran remembered everything.
The Moment of Realization
The day after the funeral, the house was still.
His mother didn't wear white. There were no rituals. Just a small pile of ash where the village cremated the body.
No one wept.
That night, his mother sat down on the floor beside him.
"He's gone," she said softly.
Vikran only nodded. His voice was steady.
"That's all."
They never said his name again.
And for the first time in years, the house felt like it could finally breathe.
Ashes in the Wind
His classmates asked once.
"Do you miss your dad?"
Vikran blinked, then answered without thinking.
"No. He never brought anything home. Not even a biscuit."
The room went silent.
He didn't flinch.
"He was just… there. And now he's not. That's all."
He wasn't trying to be cold.
But how could he miss someone who only ever left behind fear and hunger?
What Grew in His Place
After his father died, the goats stopped being kicked.
The metal roof stopped rattling with slammed fists.
His mother no longer had to lie to neighbors about bruises.
The house was still poor in things. But suddenly, it felt rich in peace.
Vikran began to help more — not out of duty, but love.
He cleaned the sheds, harvested fruit, patched the roof when it needed. He grew taller. Quieter.
But he always smiled.
Because now… no one in the house had to fear the sound of approaching footsteps.
The Weight of an Empty Space
Sometimes, late at night, his sister would ask softly:
"Do you think he's watching from above?"
Vikran paused.
"I don't think people like him get to watch from above."
Not bitter. Not cruel. Just truth.
He tucked her in and said:
"We have Ma. That's enough."
A Life Measured in Silence
Vikran didn't need pity. He didn't want it.
He carried the memories like ashes — not in a jar, not in a shrine. Just dispersed.
So light that no one saw them on his shoulders.
So heavy that he never stopped feeling them.
Final Line:
There are losses that hurt like a blade.
And there are losses that leave you feeling… nothing.
The second kind doesn't scar the skin — it quietly buries itself in your bones.
That was the kind Vikran carried.
A loss equal to dust.
To be continued..