Some news doesn't knock.
It kicks the door open, barges into your life, and leaves behind a silence too loud to bear.
Aarav walked home slowly that evening—his hands still shaking from the wreckage, his shirt stained with oil and heartbreak. He didn't know what he feared more: the disappointment in his sisters' eyes… or the look on his father's face when he'd have to say, "It's all gone."
The gate creaked open like a tired sigh.
Inside, the house was alive. Noor and Aaira were arguing over something silly. Farah was helping their mother with her medicine. Zoya was making tea, trying to stretch the last bit of milk. And Imtiaz Malik—his father—sat on the veranda, reading a tattered newspaper like a man pretending he still had control over the world.
Aarav stood still for a moment at the threshold, watching them. This—this was the only thing left unbroken. And now he had to shatter even this.
He stepped in. "Abba," he said, voice trembling.
Imtiaz looked up. "What now? You're back early."
The words tumbled out. Raw. Honest.
"The garage is gone, Abba. They came… a gang… they ruined everything. Iqbal Bhai closed it. There's nothing left."
Silence.
A pin could have dropped and it would've echoed through the soul.
Imtiaz Malik stared at his son, disbelief twisting into horror.
"No job?" he whispered.
Aarav shook his head.
"No income?"
Another shake.
And then—just like that—Imtiaz clutched his chest.
It happened so fast. One moment he was standing. The next, he crumbled like dry paper.
Zoya screamed.
Farah rushed forward.
Sameen ran for water.
But Aarav—he caught his father in his arms, feeling the weight of a man who had carried too much for too long.
"Abba!" he cried. "Abba, please!"
But the eyes that once stared in sternness had gone glassy.
By the time the doctor arrived, it was too late.
Imtiaz Malik, clerk, father of six, warrior of lost dreams… was no more.
The funeral was simple. Plain white sheets. Silent prayers. Cracked heels on dirt roads. Aaira kept asking where he went. Noor didn't have the heart to answer.
And Aarav… he stood there, still, unmoving.
Like a statue sculpted from guilt.
But the world doesn't wait for grief to finish grieving.
As soon as the body was buried and the prayers faded, the real ceremony began.
The other visitors came. Not with condolences, but calculators.
One man with a heavy mustache whispered near Aarav's ear,
"Your father took twenty-five thousand for Noor's school fees. Time to pay up."
Another, adjusting his kurta, said louder,
"He owed me thirty for the fan repair! I need it before next Friday."
Then a third, crueler than the rest, smiled and said,
"Your father borrowed but didn't die poor. You look like you've got shoulders. Time to use them."
Aarav didn't speak.
Not because he had no words.
But because words… wouldn't matter anymore.
The man who once stood between him and the world's sharp edges was gone.
And now, the knives had names.
Interest. Rent. Loans. Death.
And they were all pointed at him.
As he stood at the grave of his father, surrounded by debts and demands, one thing became clear:
This wasn't rock bottom.
This was the shovel.
And it was time to start digging.