The next morning, Shriyansh stood outside the Principal's office, his palms slightly sweaty and heart thudding against his chest. This door had always symbolized rules, discipline, and authority. But today, it represented something else—freedom. Truth. Home.
He raised his hand and knocked gently.
"Come in," came the deep baritone of Principal Bhardwaj, who sat behind his polished mahogany desk, adjusting his spectacles and reviewing a thick stack of student files.
Shriyansh stepped inside, taking a deep breath. His blazer was neatly buttoned, hair combed as always, but something about his eyes had changed—there was urgency behind their usual calm.
"Yes, Shriyansh?" the Principal asked, without looking up.
"Sir…" Shriyansh began, voice low but steady, "I need to request a leave. I want to go home."
Principal Bhardwaj's pen paused mid-signature. He looked up slowly, brows arching with surprise. "Home? That's… unexpected. You've never asked for leave in ten years. You stay back even during summer breaks."
"I know," Shriyansh replied. "But... I haven't received any letters or messages from my parents for four months. Not on my birthday, not even during festivals. It's unlike them. I tried waiting. But now, I can't anymore. I just… I need to see them."
The Principal leaned back in his chair, hands folded on his desk as he regarded the boy closely.
There was no rebellion in his voice, no trace of panic—just a quiet storm of longing and questions he could no longer ignore.
"You've always been responsible. An ideal student. But is something else bothering you, son?" the Principal asked gently. "Any issues here? Is anyone troubling you?"
"No, sir," Shriyansh replied honestly. "It's not the school. It's just… I need answers. I need to know why they've stopped writing. I can't focus. I can't sleep."
The Principal sighed and pulled out a form from the drawer.
"I understand. I may not know your whole story, but I trust your judgment." He signed the document with a flourish. "I'll grant you a week's leave. If you need more time, keep us informed."
A flicker of relief crossed Shriyansh's face. "Thank you, sir. I promise I'll be back."
Bhardwaj looked at him thoughtfully. "And Shriyansh… whatever it is you're looking for—I hope you find it."
As soon as Shriyansh entered his dorm room, he grabbed his duffel bag from the top shelf. His hands moved quickly but methodically—folding clothes, packing essentials, zipping compartments. The rest of the room was quiet, except for the faint hum of the ceiling fan.
Aarav, his roommate since Class 5, sat up from his bunk, rubbing his eyes groggily.
"Bhai… what's going on? Are you packing? Wait—did we get early holidays?" he asked, half-joking.
"No. I'm going home," Shriyansh replied without pausing.
Aarav blinked. "Wait… home home? As in—your village? For real?"
Shriyansh gave a small nod, carefully stuffing the last of his books in his bag.
Aarav sat up straighter. "Yaar, what happened? You've never even talked about home. And now suddenly you're leaving?"
There was concern in his voice, and maybe a bit of hurt too.
Shriyansh finally stopped and sat down on the edge of his bed.
"I haven't heard from them in months. Not a single letter, not even on my birthday. Something's off, Aarav. I don't know what. But I can't sit here waiting anymore. I have to go."
Aarav nodded slowly. "You sure you'll be okay?"
"I don't know. But I need to find out."
There was silence for a moment before Aarav stood and pulled him into a brief, brotherly hug.
"Text me when you reach. And if you need anything, just call. And hey… don't do anything stupid, alright."
Shriyansh gave a faint smile. "No promises."
He slung his bag over his shoulder, took one last glance at the room that had been his entire world for a decade, and stepped out. The corridors were familiar, but today they felt different—quieter, heavier. Like they knew a chapter of his life was closing.
With each step toward the school gate, his heartbeat grew louder.
He wasn't just heading home. He was stepping into the unknown.
A few hours later, with a light backpack slung over his shoulder and a thousand questions swirling in his head, Shriyansh boarded the evening train from Dehradun. His ticket was for a small, sleepy station in the heart of eastern Uttar Pradesh—a place most maps ignored, and most people forgot. It had been ten years since he left that place. Ten years since his small hands had waved goodbye at the village platform, not knowing it would be a decade before he saw it again.
The journey was long—fifteen hours of rattling tracks, chai sellers at dusty stations, and strangers speaking in fading dialects. He sat by the window, watching the landscape change—from city skylines to green fields, then patches of dry land, and finally thick groves and quiet stretches.
With every passing mile, excitement and fear warred inside him.
What would his parents say when they saw him?
Would they be surprised, or happy?
Why had they stopped writing?
What if something terrible had happened?
What if... they didn't want him back?
He tried to distract himself with the book in his lap, but his eyes always drifted outside. Memories flashed in fragments—a mango tree in his backyard, the crooked wooden gate, his mother's laughter, the scent of his father's old shawl.
He smiled.
For the first time in years, he allowed himself to feel like a child again. A son returning home.
When the train finally reached the small station—Shivganj Halt—it was nearly noon the next day. The air was thick with humidity and silence. He stepped out, inhaling the familiar earthy smell. His shoes kicked up dust on the kaccha road. The village hadn't changed much—still quiet, still forgotten, still full of secrets.
Finding his way home wasn't easy. He had forgotten the exact path, and most of the lanes looked unfamiliar. With the help of a local shopkeeper and an old man who vaguely recognized his surname, he slowly traced his way through narrow paths and broken mud roads.
And then… he saw it.
His breath caught.
The house.
Or what was left of it.
The iron gate stood ajar, half-melted, rusted by time. The once-colorful walls were now blackened, crumbling at the edges. The veranda where his mother used to dry chillies lay broken. The windows were shattered. Vines had crept up the walls, swallowing the home like nature's cruel joke.
Shriyansh stood frozen.
His bag slipped off his shoulder.
This… couldn't be it. This wasn't home.
He took a shaky step forward, heart pounding.
The door—if it could still be called that—was dangling on a single hinge. The roof had collapsed in places. The courtyard was overrun by wild plants. And an eerie silence wrapped the house like a shroud.
No laughter. No voices. No life.
His joy shattered into sorrow.
Tears welled in his eyes as a chill ran down his spine.
"What… happened here?" he whispered, more to himself than anyone.
Everything he had imagined—the reunion, the hugs, the tears of joy—was gone. Replaced by ruins. By a haunted memory.
And worst of all… no sign of his parents