"Please, don't leave me, don't leave us!Ruk ja, tere bina main kya karunga? Mere liye na sahi, baccho ke liye hi ruk ja!" (Stay, what will I do without you? If not for me, then at least for these children, please stay!)

My father's desperate pleas echoed through our home, but my mother remained resolute.

"Are you serious, Girish?" she spat, her voice venomous. "Why would I stop? You lied to me, and that's not all - you shattered my trust. I hate you, Girish. I hate you forever. I believed in you, trusted you with my everything, but you proved me wrong. You broke me in ways I never thought possible."

Tears streamed down my face as I watched my mother turn her back on us.

"Mom, please don't go!" I implored, clutching my 5-year-old brother, Rudra, tightly. "Please, Mom, see, Rudra is crying too! Please, for his sake..." My words fell on deaf ears.

Rudra's anguished cries pierced the air, and I held him closer, trying to comfort him as our mother walked away.

I clutched Rudra tightly, but his sobs only intensified. All he wanted was his mother, but his tears and cries weren't enough to stop her from leaving.

"Sweetheart, I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice trembling. "But... I can't keep doing this anymore. I'm not strong enough to keep going. Please, try to understand me."

Her hands cradled my face, her eyes pleading for empathy and comprehension. Her voice cracked under the weight of her emotions.

She kissed my forehead, her lips barely grazing my skin. The gentle touch belied the finality of her departure.

And then, she was gone.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Rudra's sobs slowly subsided, replaced by an unsettling stillness.

I stood frozen, holding my brother, as the weight of our new reality settled in.

3 years later...

I woke up with a start to a loud knock on the door, groggily opening my eyes to find it was already 6 a.m. I hastily threw off the covers and rushed to the kitchen.

"Aa rahi hun bhaiya, bas ek minute!" (Coming, give me a minute, please!) I shouted, grabbing the pot and hurrying to the main door.

I opened the door to find a middle-aged man standing there, a large drum in hand. He looked at me with a hint of impatience.

"Kitti der karti ho, bitiya? Aur bhi jagah jana hota hai dudh dene ko?" (How long will you take, child? There are other places to deliver milk to as well!)

I apologized, feeling a bit embarrassed. "Maaf kar dijiye, kaka." (Sorry, uncle.)

The milkman smiled kindly. "Choro, ye lo dudh." (Never mind, take the milk.)

He poured the milk from his drum into my pot using an aluminum mug, the creamy liquid glistening in the morning light.

After the milkman left, I closed the door and headed back to the kitchen. My days had fallen into a predictable rhythm – no drama, no twists. Just a simple, quiet routine.

School to home, home to school. That was my life now.

Dad's night shifts left me alone with Rudra, and we'd settled into a comfortable groove. We'd wake up, get ready for school, come back home, do our homework, watch some TV, and call it a day.

As I got ready for the day, a knock on the door caught my attention. I peered through the gate's peephole and saw my father standing there, so I opened the door for him.

"Sweetheart, can I have a cup of chai?" he asked, his eyes tired but alert, a sign he'd just finished a night shift at the hospital.

"Of course, why not?" I replied, heading to the kitchen.

A few minutes later, I returned with the steaming tea to find Rudra already dressed and ready for school.

"Wow, you're up and ready!" I exclaimed.

Rudra responded lazily, "Yeah, I'm not a kid anymore. I can wake up and get ready on my own!"

My dad chuckled. "Yes, yes, of course..."

Rudra rolled his eyes. "Yup, I can."

My dad sipped his tea, observing Rudra with pride. "You're growing up fast, beta."

Rudra beamed, his morning grumpiness forgotten.

The school day dragged on at a glacial pace, but finally, the final bell rang, dismissing us from our prison. I headed to Rudra's classroom, where he waited with a bright smile.

We walked home together, enjoying the warm sunlight and each other's company.

As we reached our house, Rudra rang the doorbell. Dad opened the door, his face lighting up with a warm welcome.

"Welcome back, kiddos!" he exclaimed.

Rudra quipped, "I don't know about her, but I'm definitely not a kid."

I teased, "Yeah, you're an 8-year-old adult!"

Rudra rolled his eyes dramatically, and we all burst out laughing.

The tension and exhaustion of the day melted away in that moment of shared joy.

As the day passed smoothly, the clock struck 6, and Dad left for his night shift. After lunch, Rudra and I called it a day.

I jumped onto my bed, drifting off into a fantastical daydream. But just as sleep beckoned, a knock at the door jolted me awake.

"Didi, can I sleep with you today?" Rudra's childish voice echoed through the door, laced with a hint of fear.

It was a familiar request, one that came often when Dad had a night shift. As his loving sister, I couldn't resist.

I opened the gate, took Rudra in my arms, and settled him beside me on the bed.

"What's wrong, Rudra?" I asked, noticing the worry in his eyes.

"I'm scared, Didi," he replied, his voice trembling.

I comforted him with a warm smile. "Oh, my sweet brother, we'll sleep together tonight. Okay?"

Rudra nodded, "Okay." Soon, sleep enveloped us both.

The darkness outside receded as our gentle breathing harmonized, filling the room with tranquility.

Around 3 a.m., the phone on Shubhra's bedside table shattered the silence with its persistent buzz. On the fourth ring, she picked up, her movements slow as she pressed the answer button.

"Hello?" she said, still half-asleep.

"Beta, bhago!" (Run, child!) a scared voice urged in a low, panicked tone.

Shubhra sat up with a start, her comforter falling away from her shoulders. Her mind racing, she asked, "Papa, kya hua?" (What happened, Father?)

"Sawal mat poocho, bas jaldi se wahan se niklo" (Don't ask questions, just run from there quickly), the voice insisted.

"But why..." Shubhra questioned confusion etched on her face.

"Jaldi!" She could hear the tremor in his voice.

(Fast!).

"They're coming..." The voice trailed off, leaving Shubhra with more questions than answers.

Before Shubhra could process everything, a gunshot pierced the night air, followed by eerie silence. The sudden end to the conversation left her in shock, her mind racing with questions.

"Who was it, Papa? Who?" she whispered, but there was only silence.

She sat frozen on her bed, her body numb, her thoughts reeling from the abrupt and ominous phone call. Fear gripped her, its icy fingers wrapping around her heart.

What had just happened? What danger lurked in the shadows?

Paralyzed with fear, Shubhra couldn't move or think clearly. Her mind was stuck in a state of disbelief, refusing to accept the reality of the situation.

As reality set in, Shubhra was consumed by horror and grief. Tears streamed down her face as she cried uncontrollably, her body shaking with sobs.

Her father, the rock of their family, was gone.

The feeling of uncertainty and vulnerability suffocated her, making it hard to think clearly. But one thought stood out: someone had taken her father's life.

A sudden knock at the door made her jump, fear coursing through her veins. Her father's last words echoed in her mind: "Beta, bhago!" (Run, child!).

Panic rose inside her as she quickly lifted Rudra from the bed and rushed to the window.

What she saw made her blood run cold.

Three to four armed men stood at their gate, their intentions sinister.

Shubhra's heart racing, she knew they had to escape.

Adrenaline coursed through Shubhra's veins as she made a split-second decision to flee through the back gate in the kitchen. She sprinted towards it, carrying a still-sleeping Rudra in her arms.

The knocking at the front door grew louder, more insistent, but she knew she couldn't count on her neighbors for help. Their houses were too far apart in the private villa complex.

She flung open the back gate and took off running, her legs moving on autopilot. The darkness seemed to swallow her whole.

Just as she thought she'd escaped, a hand clamped down on her shoulder from behind.

Shubhra's heart sank.

"Akhir kar pakar main aa hi gayi, ab Bach k kahan jaugi?" a menacing voice sneered, hot breath on her ear.

(Finally, we've caught you; now you have nowhere to escape?)

Shubhra's grip on Rudra tightened as she tried to shake off the hand. But the grip only strengthened.

A chill ran down her spine."Chod do!" (Let go!) she demanded, trying to sound braver than she felt.

The voice laughed, a cold, mirthless sound.