Aryan knelt beside his bed, his fingers moving with mechanical calm as he reached for the loose floorboard beneath the dusty corner rug. The wood creaked faintly under his grip. He had done this many times before—always in silence, always when the house was still. No footsteps above, no voices calling his name. Just the rhythmic ticking of the old wall clock.
He slid the board aside.
The box was matte black. Heavy. Steel-latched. Hidden away like a coffin.
Aryan pulled it out and placed it on the bed. He didn't hesitate to open it. Inside: a ribbon, a photograph, and a bullet. Just three things. But they were everything.
The ribbon was the first thing he touched.
It was once bright blue. Now it had dark, faded patches—stained with something that had turned brown over time. Blood. Aryan had folded it meticulously, like someone handling a relic. This was his talisman. His anchor.
Then, the photograph. Cracked glass. A faint smear on the surface. It was a picture of him as a baby. His cheeks round, a gummy smile on his lips, his eyes staring wide into the camera. Behind him was his mother—Kavya—her arms wrapped around him, her face turned partially toward him, her lips caught in mid-laughter. It was the last photo before everything changed.
He remembered it vividly.
His father had taken the photo.
Back when he still pretended to be a family man.
The fists came later. At first, it was yelling. Then came the silences—days of it. Then rage, cold and sharp. Aryan still remembered the feel of the leather belt, how it bit into his skin like it had teeth. He remembered being six, bleeding from his gums after a slap sent him flying into a chair leg. He remembered the cracked tooth. The iron taste in his mouth. The tears he tried to swallow.
He remembered hiding under the stairs for entire nights.
And he remembered the stairs. Old, wooden, with one step that always squeaked. His father always took them two at a time. But that night, Aryan waited. Silent. Calculated.
He pushed.
The image of his father falling had never left him. The way his arms flailed. The sickening crack of the neck against the marble edge. The instant stillness.
He remembered the blood pooling around the head. The way it looked like a halo.
When the neighbors rushed in and his mother arrived with the police—she had been called for formalities—she looked at the boy standing by the railing, her son, now orphaned.
She didn't recognize him.
She had tears. Grief. But none for him.
She walked away after the funeral.
And that's when it broke.
Something deep inside Aryan fractured like glass under pressure. Not in one clean crack, but in a spiderweb of shattering. His heart didn't break. It hardened. And in the years that followed, that broken boy learned how to smile.
He picked up the final item from the box—the bullet.
Silver casing. A soft glint under the bulb light.
It wasn't just a keepsake.
It was a promise.
He rolled it between his fingers. The bullet was cold, but it comforted him. He didn't have a gun. Not yet. But one day, he would. And he knew where it would go.
He placed everything back with care—the ribbon folded again, the photo turned face-down, the bullet placed dead-center.
Then he closed the box.
And the smile returned to his lips.
The same smile he wore when he waved good morning to his neighbors. The same one he used when he helped old teachers carry bags.
But inside, behind the smile, behind the school uniform and charming voice...
Aryan Mehra was loading his gun.
One memory at a time.