There are many kinds of strength in the world.
Some fight wars. Some build nations. But the rarest is the strength to live every day while your heart is missing a piece.
For Rajesh Sharma, my father, that strength became his only weapon.
Five years had passed since that terrible day in China. The explosions, the panic, the endless reports—all behind him now, but the wound had not healed. The world saw him as the Senior Central Government Officer, sharp and respected, a man who lived by logic and principle. They didn't see the empty silence that haunted him every morning when he opened his eyes.
Once a strict man who greeted each day at dawn with prayer and purpose, he now lived in routines made of habit, not hope. The clock ticked, meetings were held, and reports were signed—but his spirit stayed elsewhere.
Every night, he still left a night lamp burning near my empty bed. When others told him to move on, he replied quietly, "You don't move on from your own blood."
Publicly, his efforts seemed noble but measured. He started a social project under the Ministry's Child Protection Scheme, supporting the rescue of missing minors across the country. The media praised him as a humanitarian. They called him "The People's Officer, a man who turned personal tragedy into service.
Whenever someone asked if he sought closure, he said, "Closure is for endings. A father waits."
No one knew that his new programme was not created for the public—it was built for one child, his own.
Within government corridors, his project ran quietly, but inside its folds, he had hidden a different network—small, silent, his alone. He called it "The Lighthouse.
Where other projects tracked files, his aimed to pierce darkness. It linked directly to his secret contacts in foreign embassies, airport authorities, and intelligence units. He used every ounce of credibility years of service had earned him, requesting private data transfers disguised under diplomatic labels.
Whenever someone questioned his updates, he always had a policy answer ready. "Look deeper," he told his officers, "not just in files—but in silences."
Each week, at midnight, in his home office, he sat before piles of old records. My name appeared on all of them—birth certificate, travel logs, medical reports, and school admission papers. He kept the little ID card I had once drawn for myself—a child's sketch of a soldier with seven stars behind his head.
He stared at it often, whispering, "You already knew who you'd become, didn't you?"
On the rare evenings when work forced him to attend family dinners, he smiled for everyone else's sake, but his eyes betrayed him. He sat beside Grandfather Raghav, both men united in silence, warriors battling wounds that no battlefield could show. They never discussed their missions, though sometimes one would simply nod, as if admitting they both carried the same burden.
My father's promise, however, was different from my grandfather's strategy or my uncle's investigative networks. His vow was solitary — built not on resources, but instinct.
As a servant of the government, he knew how systems worked. Official reports could be manipulated. Testimonies could vanish. But truth always left traces—in patterns, inconsistencies, and the gaps between words. And so he began tracking the invisible.
He started compiling what others overlooked: news snippets from obscure sources, unverified ship logs, and translated foreign notes that described children found near coastal towns. Strange mentions of "a child born under stars" caught his eye in research archives from as far as Indonesia to Madagascar.
To create his own trail, he met no politicians, no officers—only ordinary people: fishermen, travellers, monks, and scholars. Often, he visited border villages alone, in plain clothing, carrying an old bag with papers and a single photograph—mine smiling between crayon scribbles.
He spoke to everyone who'd listen. "Have you ever seen this boy?"
Most said no. But some looked uneasy, as if memory flickered.
Once, an old fisherman near Andaman whispered, "I saw a child washed near the tide once, years ago—a mark of stars on his neck, shining faintly under the moon. But by dawn, he was gone. Like the sea took him home."
Rajesh's hands trembled, but he hid hope beneath a calm smile. "You're sure?"
The man nodded. "I never forget the light I saw that night."
My father thanked him, wrote nothing on paper, and recorded the moment forever in his heart.
Back home, he pinned a small red dot on his hidden map—the same oceanic region my grandfather, uncle, and aunt had unknowingly begun circling in their own secret missions.
But only he knew his pattern. Only he trusted his compass: a father's instinct.
His home office turned into his private sanctuary. Behind locked drawers, maps covered half the wall: tides, currents, and star charts. He compared celestial alignments to navigation records, marking nights when the seven stars shone brightest over the ocean.
"Destiny doesn't leave footprints," he murmured once, staring at the glowing dots, "but it leaves light."
Even Dr Priya Sharma, my mother, sensed something had changed. Late one night, she found him standing by the window, maps scattered across his desk. She asked softly, "Are you chasing hope or ghosts?"
He didn't turn toward her. "What's the difference if it brings him back?"
She walked closer, touching his arm. "Rajesh, the world already thinks you're obsessed."
He looked at her for a long moment, then smiled faintly. "Let them think what they want. I'll find our son."
After that, she didn't question him again. She simply left a fresh cup of coffee on his desk whenever the clock struck midnight.
Unknown to the world, Rajesh's work grew into a quiet legend inside closed government circles. A few junior officers whispered, "Sir still searches at midnight for his son. No one dares block his files."
One day, an officer from the Coastal Recon Unit visited his office, placing a sealed envelope marked Confidential. Inside was a fuzzy satellite photo of a faint landmass appearing near storm clouds — one that vanished in the next scan.
Rajesh stared at it for minutes before whispering, "Finally… my tide."
That night, under the seven bright stars above the veranda, he wrote a single line in his personal diary — words he never intended anyone to read:
"Even if I must walk into the sea itself, I'll find the place where you sleep, my son."
And as the clock struck midnight again, the father who had lost everything straightened his shoulders, wiped his tears quietly, and whispered into the dark,
"I'm coming, Mukul. Your father is coming."