The world had gone silent.
No pain, no sound — only darkness.
For two years, Arvin's body lay motionless in a hospital bed. Machines beeped softly beside him, counting seconds he could no longer feel. Outside, seasons changed, years passed, and people moved on.
When the news of the accident reached his village, his maternal grandmother fell ill.
The shock was too heavy for her old heart.
His mother sold everything — her jewelry, her few possessions, even her blood — trying to save both him and her mother.
But it wasn't enough.
Two months after the accident, his grandmother passed away.
The little house that once smelled of firewood and warmth became silent forever.
His mother stayed alone, visiting the hospital every week. She sat beside his bed, holding his hand, whispering,
"Wake up, Arvin... please wake up."
But he never moved.
She worked small jobs, cleaning, cooking, doing anything she could to pay for his treatment.
But debts grew, and her body grew weaker.
One month before Arvin opened his eyes, his mother's heart finally gave up.
The world lost her — quietly, like a candle dying in the wind.
---
It was two years after the accident when something changed.
A faint glow appeared on Arvin's hand — a soft, blue mark, pulsing like light under his skin. The monitor beside him beeped faster. His fingers moved slightly.
"Doctor! He's waking up!" a nurse shouted.
The doctor rushed in, eyes wide with disbelief. Arvin's eyelids trembled, then opened slowly for the first time in years.
The room felt strange — the smell of medicine, the bright white lights, the cold air.
He blinked, confused. His lips moved weakly.
"Where... am I?"
"You're in the city hospital," the doctor said softly. "Don't try to move too much."
Arvin looked around. The world felt unreal, distant, like a dream that didn't end. His voice cracked,
"My... mother? My grandmother?"
The doctor hesitated.
"Don't tell him anything yet," he whispered to the nurse later. "He's too weak to handle any emotional shock."
The nurse nodded and smiled at Arvin. "You need rest," she said kindly. "Only two days of your hospital fees are paid. But don't worry, we'll take care of that later."
Her voice carried sympathy — a kindness that felt both real and painful.
Days passed. Arvin started walking slowly again. He could feel his strength returning, but his heart felt empty.
He didn't remember much about the accident — only rain, lights, and darkness.
One night, while he was resting, he noticed something strange.
A faint holographic screen flickered before his eyes — translucent and glowing.
"Loading…" it said, the progress bar barely moving.
He blinked again, but it didn't disappear.
"What is this?" he whispered.
The doctors said nothing unusual was visible. They thought he was hallucinating from trauma.
But Arvin knew what he saw. The screen appeared every night, glowing brighter each time.
---
A week later, the doctor finally sat beside him.
"Arvin," he said gently, "there's something I have to tell you."
Arvin turned to him, anxious.
"Who brought me here? Did my mother come?"
The doctor sighed and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Your grandmother… passed away two years ago. And your mother… she died one month before you woke up."
The words fell like stones in the quiet room.
Arvin froze. His lips trembled, but no sound came out. His world — the small, broken one he still loved — collapsed completely.
Tears rolled down his face, but his voice never came.
---
A few days later, the doctor gave him permission to leave.
Arvin walked out of the hospital alone. The sky was gray.
He went back to his home — or what was left of it.
The doors were broken. The air was full of dust.
No one lived there anymore.
Only silence remained.
He looked around — the empty bed, the old photographs, the memories that refused to fade.
The room felt colder than before. Dust floated through the sunlight, and every corner whispered a memory he didn't want to hear.
His body trembled, his vision blurred, and the world spun in slow circles. The bed was too painful to look at.
"Mom…" he whispered weakly, "…I came home."
Only silence answered.
Outside, the rain began— gentle, steady. Through half-closed eyes, he saw a small toy lying beside the cupboard. It was a wooden spinner — one his mother had bought when he was five. Somehow, it was still there.
He reached for it with shaking hands and spun it once.
The sound of its faint whirling filled the room.
For a moment, he almost smiled.
His heartbeat echoed in his ears, mixing with the soft hum of the spinning toy. The toy slowed… and stopped.
Arvin's breathing grew shallow. His hand slipped, touching the glowing mark on his wrist again — it pulsed once, brighter than before.
And then — people started coming — strangers holding papers.
"Your mother took some loans," one man said coldly. "Three crore rupees. You'll have to pay it."
Arvin didn't reply. He just sat down, staring at the wall, as their words echoed in his ears.
He had nothing — no family, no money, no strength.
And then…
The screen appeared again.
"Loading: 99%…"
The light filled the room, spreading across the walls, bright and alive.
Arvin stared at it, trembling — his breath quick and shallow.
And then — that same holographic screen appeared in front of him again, its light cutting through the darkness.
The room glowed white.
"Loading Complete."
"System Reinitializing…"
.....