Hope is a fragile thing.
Sometimes it walks on two feet, covered in grease.
Sometimes it smells like burnt rubber and chai.
And sometimes… it gets shattered in broad daylight by men who laugh too loud.
It was a Wednesday. Ordinary, if such a thing existed anymore. Aarav had reached the garage early, earlier than even the flies that buzzed around the stale oil cans. He swept the floor, lined the tools in order, and even managed to smile when Iqbal Bhai grunted in approval—a rare celestial event in itself.
By noon, the sun was cruel and sweat was a second skin. Aarav had just finished changing the tire on a white Corolla when the ground beneath him shifted—not literally, but in that gut-deep way that tells you something's wrong before the world confirms it.
They arrived in black bikes and darker intentions. Five men. Local thugs. One of them, their leader, wore gold chains thicker than his brain, chewing paan like it was a sport. The others lingered like shadows with batons.
Iqbal Bhai looked up from beneath a lifted truck, face hardening like old steel.
"Bas kar do, Abbas," he muttered. "I told you last month. I don't pay for fake protection."
Abbas grinned, spitting red on the garage floor.
"Then maybe your shop needs a reminder… that accidents happen."
The air turned iron-thick.
And then—it all broke loose.
One thug swung a metal rod into a customer's side mirror. Another smashed open a toolbox and scattered the tools across the ground. A third kicked over the spare tires stacked like trophies in the corner.
Aarav moved to stop them, but one glance from Iqbal froze him.
Not now. Not when they were outnumbered.
The chaos crescendoed. Windscreens shattered. Bonnet hoods bent like paper. A fire started—small, from a spilled fuel can—and danced mockingly across the grease-soaked floor before Aarav managed to kill it.
By the time the dust settled, the garage looked like a warzone.
A temple of labor, desecrated.
Iqbal Bhai just stood there, silent. His face unreadable. Then he walked into the office, lit a cigarette with trembling fingers, and made one phone call.
It lasted fifteen seconds.
He came out, looked at Aarav, and said,
"Garage is shut, beta. I'm done."
Aarav blinked. "What?"
Iqbal didn't repeat. He didn't need to. His silence had the finality of a tombstone.
Later, Aarav stood alone among the ruins. Tools lay broken. Tires ripped open. Even the calendar on the wall—still showing April 2013—had fallen.
Iqbal Bhai had left without saying goodbye.
Just like that… the only door Aarav had found in the dark slammed shut.
No job.
No money.
No medicine for his mother.
No weddings for his sisters.
Only smoke, silence, and the scent of everything he'd worked for—turning into ash.
The city didn't notice.
But Aarav Malik…
He did.
He stood there, among the wreckage, fists clenched, teeth gritted—not because he was angry. But because he refused to fall. Not now. Not again.
Even if every door had burned down—he'd learn how to build one with his bare hands.
Because when the world steals your fire…
You learn to become the flame.