The walls are cracked, nearly breaking apart. It looks too old. The home was abandoned many years ago. Once upon a time, a family lived here, but now it's empty, with no maintenance. Dust and roots have made it their home. The spider webs hanging on the walls give a creepy look to the whole house. No one calls it a home now. Clearly, only the walls exist.
Ivan's eyes were on the walls, on the cracked furniture. It all seemed untouched for many years.
"If no one lives in a home, the home turns into walls of concrete," Ivan thought.
"You've seen poverty? This small space was our living room. That corner—my mom cooked there. That was our kitchen. We ate rice every single day. Breakfast, lunch, dinner… always rice. In this hall where we're standing, we had a second-hand TV. My dad bought it from his friend. I don't know where it is now. Maybe a thief took it. Even our stove… it seems they took only 'precious' things. But we had nothing to steal."
Ryaan chuckled softly, but his chuckle had pain in it—a hidden pain he had kept inside for many years. He felt lonely. He had a scar on his chest, and he never showed it in front of anyone. His beliefs were not made by birth; they were made by the things that happened to him when he was a kid.
"We couldn't afford milk, eggs, or wheat flour. Rice was the only thing cheaper, the only thing we could depend on."
Ryaan spoke in a low voice. He remembered seeing his mother making rice every day in the kitchen.
"I cried because I didn't want to eat rice… but mom understood me. She said, 'A few more days of rice, then we will buy flour, then I will make tasty dishes for you.'"
Ryaan's eyes filled with tears, but he laughed softly at the thought of his mother, at her faith, how she believed change would come, how she believed a miracle would happen. But she didn't know what was going to happen to her—something that destroyed her son's whole world.
"See this wall? I painted on it. My art. You could say… artist Ryaan."
He showed Ivan the wall, where a drawing of a kid with a kite was there, running. It was made with pencil and color. Ryaan made it when he was a kid. A kid with a lot of dreams.
The memories of Ryaan came in front of his eyes. He never forgot. He never stepped out of his old memories. Those bad memories still lived in his head.
"Do you want to see my bedroom? Come."
He walked ahead in the hall, deeper inside. There were stairs. He walked on them and Ivan followed behind. The stairs were old concrete. They didn't look like they would collapse, but Ivan still feared walking on them.
But Ryaan was excited, with full energy, to show everything to Ivan—everything that was important for him. As if this old house was new and beautiful to him, he was excited to show the place he once lived.
"Here… this little corner is where I slept. And that room over there…"
Ryaan pointed to the room beside the small bedroom. This room had only one single bed beside a small window. Here Ryaan used to sleep every night. He saw many dreams here. Many unfulfilled visions he had created inside his head. But how could a kid imagine a tragedy waiting ahead? A tragedy that now stood him in front of his own past—his unfortunate past.
"That's where my mom died."
His voice did not shake while he said it to Ivan, but he felt some relief after saying it.
"Better if we keep it locked."
He closed the door. It was already slightly open, but he didn't even glance inside. He didn't have the courage. If he looked inside, he knew he would again see his mother lying on the floor.
"You're silent… Ivan," Ryaan noticed. He realized he had been talking the whole time, but Ivan didn't even nod. He just followed him quietly.
"I've got no words," Ivan finally said. Then he added, "Do you think he'll come?"
"He will. I'm one hundred percent sure."
Ryaan glanced around the room one more time. It wasn't a bedroom, but a little room. His school bag, the cartoon pictures on the walls—everything reminded him of his childhood days.
"What's this?" Ivan asked, picking up a notebook.
Ryaan's eyes widened when he saw Ivan holding the notebook. He rushed and snatched it from Ivan, as if he didn't want him to see what was inside.
"My drawing book… give it back."
His grip on the book was tight.
Ivan looked at him silently. Ryaan had shown him the whole house, all the suffering, all the pain, everything… but now he was hiding this small old drawing book made by a kid.
"I used to be a good artist once," he murmured, clutching the book.
"Ryaan… what if he doesn't come?" Ivan asked. He didn't want to stay there for even one more second. He felt uneasy. The night had already fallen. He wanted to go home early. His mother was pregnant. She never asked where he went at this hour, but still he wanted to return.
"Are you worried?" Ryaan leaned closer.
"Yes… for you," Ivan answered, uncomfortable.
Ryaan put his finger on Ivan's mouth. "Shhh…"
He held Ivan's arm and pulled him behind the bedroom door. They hid behind the door so no one could see them or sense their presence inside the house.
A loud sound of shoes echoed from the hall. A man appeared.
His face was old, clearly in his mid-forties. His face had many scars—maybe from fights or knives. He looked scary. His tall figure and strong body made him look powerful, like a man who would never accept losing. He could easily throw two men at once.
But today, he was drunk—and that was his weakest point. A drunk man cannot stand properly, walk properly, or think properly.
So it was the perfect time to kill him for Ryaan.
Yes—he was the father of Ryaan.
The one who killed Ryaan's own mother…
with his own hands.