The estate was steeped in silence, heavy with unspoken emotion. The evening sun sagged low, pouring gold across the driveway, casting long shadows that stretched like reluctant goodbyes.
Mr. Rawat stood tall, shoulders squared, but his eyes carried the weariness of parting. Beside him, Aarav's sharp profile was softened by the weight pressing over him, fists tightening and loosening at his side.
And Ayan—small and tense in his crisp school uniform—shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His fingers toyed nervously with the hem of his sleeve, betraying the tremble in him that no fabric could conceal.
No one wanted him to leave. But protest was useless. Arun had decided: once their father returned, Ayan would be taken back.
A low hum broke the stillness.
A sleek black car slipped past the gates, sunlight glinting off its polished surface. It rolled to a smooth stop, and the latch clicked.
Abhi stepped out first, his shoes crunching faintly against the gravel. Arun followed—tall, composed, posture rigid as ever, his presence cutting sharp against the soft melancholy of the evening.
Mr. Rawat offered a faint, welcoming smile. "Come in."
Abhi hesitated, glancing toward the door, but Arun didn't move. He remained by the car, hands steady at his sides, gaze unwavering.
"No, uncle," he said quietly. "We have to leave now… And thank you for helping us."
Ayan's breath hitched audibly. His shoes stayed planted, his wide eyes shining with tears he refused to let fall. Aarav's jaw clenched, his lips a firm line, his raw gaze fixed on Ayan—unspoken words choking him into silence.
Abhi shifted uneasily, the ache in the air pressing heavy against him. He should have felt relief at being home again. Instead, unease gnawed at him.
Then his gaze caught Arun's.
For just a second—barely more—something flickered there: hesitation, maybe even softness. But it vanished just as quickly, buried under his impenetrable calm.
Arun turned away. Without a word, he opened the car door and guided Ayan inside, his hand firm on his brother's shoulder. Then he slipped in after him.
The engine roared. Tires whispered against the gravel. The car pulled away. Past the gates. Gone.
Mr. Rawat exhaled slowly, his gaze lingering on the empty road. Aarav stood rigid, still as stone, the storm buried beneath his stillness.
And Abhi… Abhi swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. He was home.
So why did it feel like something vital had just been taken away with them?
---
[Later—Singh's Mansion]
The hall pulsed with movement, servants gliding swiftly with trays, the faint clink of porcelain weaving through the air. The scent of tea and fresh polish lingered, mingling with the chill of authority that always clung to the mansion.
In the sitting area, Mr. Singh sat with effortless command, his posture regal, his face unreadable. Yet today, the focus wasn't on him.
Two visitors claimed the space.
The first—a man in his early forties—wore power like a tailored suit. His dark eyes gleamed sharp intelligence, his composure deliberate, every movement measured. Beside him sat a boy, late teens, his resemblance undeniable—sharper features softened by youth.
The man's words with Mr. Singh were low, deliberate, carrying the weight of secrecy. Until he stilled. His gaze flicked to the doorway.
Two figures stepped inside.
Recognition sharpened his eyes before softening into a faint smile.
"Ayan…"
The name, spoken with quiet familiarity, sliced through the room.
Ayan faltered, his steps uncertain, recognition sparking in his gaze. Arun hesitated, eyes narrowing—strangers, yet not entirely.
Ayan moved forward, shoulders stiff but not afraid, while Arun followed with wary precision. They bowed politely before stopping. The boy stood, his expression polite, smile measured.
The man's gaze lingered on Arun, heavy with memory, before his lips curved.
"Arun…" His voice was smooth, assured. "It's been a long time. You were just a kid back then."
Recognition struck.
"Uncle Sid…" Ayan's voice was careful, curiosity edging through. "How come you're here?"
Arun's mind pieced it together a beat later—Mr. Sidharth Singh. And his son, Shubham. Relatives he had only met fleetingly as a child, before they left to manage international business ties.
Shubham inclined his head, smile faint but courteous. "Uncle Anurag called us. We're here to take you back."
The words sliced the air like glass.
Ayan froze, his face draining of warmth. His gaze darted between his father and uncle—confusion, disbelief, hurt colliding in silence.
Arun's jaw tightened. He hadn't been told. No warning, no discussion. Just a decision already carved into stone.
Mr. Singh's steady gaze left no room for doubt. It was final. For Ayan's safety. For control. Arun understood. But Ayan…
"My second semester just started," Ayan's quiet voice carried steel beneath the tremor.
Sidharth's tone was soft, persuasive. "Don't worry. We'll handle everything. You still have a week before we leave."
Meant to soothe. It didn't.
Ayan's shoulders stiffened. His hands curled into his sleeves, breath uneven. A week. Just one week. The thought crashed into him, dragging his heart elsewhere—to someone else. Aarav.
His eyes sought Arun's, silently pleading for an explanation.
---
[That night—Rawat's House]
Aarav sat propped against the headboard, legs stretched but posture tight with unease. Shadows from the lamp pooled across his sharp jawline, casting him in quiet tension.
Abhi perched on the edge of the mattress, restless, his foot tapping against the floor. The silence between them wasn't comfort—it was suffocation.
Finally, he exhaled, voice low. "Brother… your classes start tomorrow?"
Aarav gave the faintest nod, eyes fixed on the floor.
Abhi caught it, forcing a smile. "Then don't worry. I'll handle that young mas—" He faltered, Arun's face flashing in his mind, before pushing out the words. "…Ayan's brother."
Aarav sighed, deep and raw, his fingers tapping an unsteady rhythm against his thigh. "I just…" He trailed, then shook his head, eyes clouded.
"When he was leaving… it felt wrong. Like he was going too far."
The words lingered, sharp, too honest.
Abhi didn't reply. Couldn't. Because he understood. He'd felt it too.
---
[Meanwhile—Singh's Mansion]
The mansion pulsed back into its rigid rhythm. Authority seeped into every corner, stripping away the warmth it had briefly known.
Even the kitchen, once touched by laughter, had fallen silent.
Near the stove, a woman stirred a simmering pot, the steam fogging her glasses. Her voice wavered as she murmured, "I miss Abhi… He would've come running in by now, whining for food, pretending to help."
Her lips curved with a faint, bittersweet smile.
Around her, the others stilled, eyes softening though none dared echo the words. The absence was too heavy, too shared.
The moment shattered—footsteps at the doorway.
The servants straightened instantly, heads ducking low, hands moving quicker in practiced haste.
A voice followed, calm but weighted. "Aunty, please take Ayan's dinner to his room when it's ready."
Arun stood in the doorway, tall, expression composed, yet shadowed.
The woman nodded quickly. "Yes, sir."
Arun lingered only a second before turning away, his steps silent down the corridor.
But though his face betrayed nothing, his chest carried the weight of what he had overheard. Their words. Their longing.
And he couldn't fault them. Because he felt it too.
Despite his restraint, despite the composure he wore so rigidly—Arun knew the truth.
The mansion wasn't the same anymore. And neither was life.