---

The glass shattered before her mother’s sobs did.

Sia stood frozen near the door frame, her small hands gripping the wood so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. The living room reeked of alcohol, smoke, and something worse—something bitter and cruel and rotting.

“You think you're better than me now?” her father slurred, stumbling forward, towering over her mother. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, belt hanging loose, eyes bloodshot with rage that needed no reason.

“I didn’t say that, please—” her mother whispered, her voice trembling as she backed away. But he didn’t care.

He never did.

“You ungrateful woman!” His hand whipped through the air before crashing onto the wall just inches from her mother’s face. “This is my house! You get to live here, and you dare question my decisions!”

Sia’s breath caught. This is not the first time and this will not be the last. She knew it.

Her mother cried quietly, arms shielding her face as if used to it now. As if expecting worse.

And Sia—fifteen, small, terrified—watched everything from the hallway, her heart pounding like a war drum. Her lips trembled, but her legs wouldn’t move. Her fists clenched, her figure flinched as her father shouted, nails digging into her skin.

Inside her boiled something sharp. Not just fear. Not anymore.

Rage.

A helpless, burning, child-sized rage.

But she couldn’t speak.

Not yet.

Not when silence was the only thing keeping them both alive.

---

The rain didn’t fall. But it should have.

The air was too still, the world too quiet.

A crowd had gathered under the open sky, heads bowed, murmurs low. Black umbrellas, white clothes, pale faces. The priest spoke. Someone sobbed.

Raghav stood motionless, staring at the twin caskets in front of him.

People moved around him. Touched his arm. Whispered condolences he didn’t hear. His uncle stood close—too close—with a hand on his shoulder like he had a right to be there.

But Raghav didn’t flinch.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t cry.

His hands rested in front. His face was unreadable. Eyes still

Inside, though—

Inside, he knew the truth.

And though he was only nineteen, he understood something most men didn’t at forty:

The world wasn’t just unfair. It was cruel.

And the people who smiled at you the most…

Could be the ones who buried you.

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