They left before the village fully woke.
The bicycle moved quietly through the narrow road, its chain clicking softly in the cold morning air. The sound felt intrusive in the stillness, like something that did not belong. Kashifuddin rode without hurry, his posture relaxed but deliberate, hands steady on the handle. Masleuddin sat behind him, silent, arms folded, eyes fixed straight ahead.
Ayaan followed at a distance.
Not close enough to be seen.
Not far enough to lose them.
Each step sent a dull ache through his ribs, a reminder of how close he had come to dying. He ignored it. The pain in his body felt small compared to the weight pressing down on his chest. He did not know exactly where they were going, but he knew why.
No one goes to a grave by accident.
The fields slowly gave way to a narrower dirt path. Then the dirt path became a thin trail, boxed in by trees on both sides. The air grew heavier, quieter. Even the birds seemed reluctant to make noise. The sounds of the village faded behind them until there was nothing left but footsteps, breathing, and the bicycle chain.
Finally, the bicycle stopped.
Ayaan slowed and crouched behind a thick tree, his fingers digging into the bark as he steadied himself.
Before them lay a small graveyard.
No walls.
No gates.
No order.
Just uneven ground, scattered stones, a few crude markers, and silence that felt older than the trees themselves.
Kashifuddin stepped off the bicycle.
Masleuddin followed.
Neither spoke.
They walked forward together, slow and deliberate, stopping before one particular grave. The earth there was darker than the rest, freshly turned. The stone marker was simple, almost careless, as if whoever placed it had not trusted themselves to write anything meaningful.
Ayaan's throat tightened.
This was Akil's sister.
Before Kashifuddin could say a word, a voice cut through the quiet.
"What are you doing here?"
A man stepped out from behind a nearby tree.
He looked thin—thinner than grief alone could explain. His clothes were worn but clean, carefully maintained out of habit rather than hope. His eyes were red, swollen, hollowed by nights without sleep. Grief clung to him so completely it felt like another layer of skin.
Akil's sister's husband.
The moment he recognized them, something inside him broke.
He rushed forward and grabbed Kashifuddin by the collar, his fingers shaking, knuckles white.
"What are you doing here?" he shouted, his voice cracking mid-sentence. "What right do you have to stand here?"
Masleuddin moved instantly, stepping forward—
But Kashifuddin raised a hand.
The man's grip tightened.
"She was innocent!" he screamed. "She was like a flower—do you understand that? A flower!"
He shook Kashifuddin violently, the motion raw and desperate, as if he were trying to force pain into someone who looked untouched by it.
"You think because you're powerful you can do anything?" he cried. "You think people like us don't matter?"
His hand came up.
The slap echoed through the graveyard.
Sharp.
Loud.
Final.
Ayaan froze.
The sound seemed to hang in the air long after it should have faded.
Kashifuddin did not react.
Not immediately.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet—so calm it almost hurt to hear.
"Why are you touching me?" he asked.
"Why are you attacking me?"
The man laughed, but there was no humor in it. Only bitterness so deep it trembled.
"She died because of your world," he cried. "Because of your fights. Because of your enemies."
He pressed his forehead against Kashifuddin's chest, his body shaking.
"What was her fault?" he screamed. "Tell me! What did she do wrong?"
Masleuddin stepped in and grabbed the man firmly, pulling him back before his legs could give way. He forced him forward slightly, hands gripping his shoulders.
"Enough," Masleuddin said. His voice was low, controlled. "Be quiet."
The man resisted weakly.
"My wife was a flower," he sobbed. "She worked hard. We worked hard. We lived peacefully."
His voice broke apart completely.
"We were happy," he whispered. "My children were happy."
At that moment, small footsteps approached.
A boy—barely six years old—stood at the edge of the graveyard.
He looked at his father.
At his tears.
At the two men standing near his mother's grave.
Confusion crossed his face first. Then fear.
He ran forward and hid behind his father's leg, clutching his clothes tightly, peeking out just enough to see.
Ayaan felt something tear open in his chest.
The man dropped to his knees instinctively and wrapped an arm around his son, pulling him close.
"What was her fault?" he asked again, his voice quieter now, shattered beyond anger. "We earned our living honestly. We never harmed anyone."
He looked up at Kashifuddin and Masleuddin, his eyes empty.
"Is this what strength does?" he asked.
"Is this what power protects?"
Neither brother answered.
Silence stretched painfully, pressing down on everyone present.
Finally, the man stood, still holding his son's hand.
He did not shout again.
He did not curse.
He did not ask for anything more.
He simply walked away.
The child looked back once—his eyes lingering on the grave, on the men, on the place where his world had ended.
Then they disappeared between the trees.
Ayaan leaned back against the trunk, breathing hard.
His hands were trembling.
"My father was right," he whispered to himself. "She did nothing wrong."
Yet she was dead.
And still, her husband had struck Kashifuddin.
Ayaan felt confused.
Angry.
Helpless.
The scene shifted back to the brothers.
Masleuddin released a slow breath, as if he had been holding it since they arrived.
"This is why I brought you here," he said quietly.
Kashifuddin remained still, his eyes fixed on the grave.
"So you would remember," Masleuddin continued, "that we don't fight alone."
He gestured around them, toward the village they could no longer hear.
"People live around us. Our men have families. Children. Parents."
His voice hardened.
"Our battles should never reach them. Our village's children, women, elders—if they suffer because of us, then we are no better than Red Hollow."
Kashifuddin nodded slowly.
"You're right," he said.
Masleuddin looked at him. "You understand?"
"I do now," Kashifuddin replied. "Clearly."
They stood there for a long moment.
No anger.
No speeches.
Only something heavy settling into place.
From his hiding spot, Ayaan watched them.
Another memory surfaced—his father, years older, staring into the dark.
"My brother was the one who stopped me,"
"When I went too far."
Ayaan's heart began to pound.
Masleuddin.
His father's younger brother.
The one who questioned him.
The one who pulled him back.
Ayaan swallowed.
Then how did he die?
His father had never explained.
Had never even hinted.
Fear crawled slowly up Ayaan's spine.
If Masleuddin was the one who restrained Kashifuddin—
If he was the moral anchor—
Then what kind of incident could remove him?
Ayaan felt cold.
"I didn't ask," he whispered. "You never told me."
The brothers turned away from the grave and began walking back toward the bicycle.
Ayaan stayed hidden, his mind racing.
This was not just about revenge.
This was about balance.
And something—somewhere in the future—would break that balance completely.
He did not know when.
He did not know how.
But he knew this now with terrifying certainty:
Masleuddin's death was not an accident.
And whatever caused it…
Was still waiting to happen.