"Mom…" Mansh called out, his voice low, nearly lost in the quiet hum of the kitchen. It wasn't loud enough to demand attention, but there was a subtle urgency woven into the single word—a quiet pleading that clung to it.
He stood at the threshold, just beyond the reach of the warm, cumin-scented air.
One hand rested on the wooden frame of the doorway, his fingers curling slightly against the surface—an unconscious gesture, as if he needed something to hold onto. The kitchen light was dim, natural sunlight filtering weakly through the slatted blinds, casting narrow lines of gold across the tiled floor and catching the motes of spice-laden steam that floated gently in the air.
"Have you seen my keys?" he asked after a beat, his voice softer this time, almost hesitant. "The ones with the bottle-opener keychain…"
His eyes fell on her back.
She hadn't turned.
Her silhouette was outlined in the hazy light, her figure partially obscured by the slowly rising steam. Her hair was twisted up in a loose bun, a few stray strands clinging to the back of her neck with sweat.
She wore a faded house kurta, sleeves pushed up past her elbows, revealing the light sheen of oil that caught the warm light as her hand moved steadily.
She stirred something in a steel pot—a thick, slow motion, deliberate and practiced, as if the world outside her stirring didn't concern her.
The scent that filled the kitchen was sharp and layered—coriander, garlic, the tang of mustard seeds just beginning to pop. It was comforting. Familiar. And yet today, it felt strangely distant to Mansh, like he was watching a memory replay itself instead of living in the moment.
There was no answer.
He swallowed, his dry slaiva, his fingers tightening on the frame.
Then—finally—her voice, flat and automatic. "No," she said. "Did you lose them?"
"I… I don't know." His words faltered as soon as they left his mouth. He glanced down at the floor, then back at her. "I thought I put them somewhere. But now I can't find them."
Her only response was a sharp, controlled breath through her nose.
The kind that didn't need words to be understood.
A breath that spoke of tired routines. Of repeated conversations. Of a life spent putting out small fires every day.
She shook her head slowly, and for a moment he thought she might turn around—but she didn't. Instead, she adjusted her grip on the ladle and resumed stirring, the motion more brisk now, slightly agitated.
"I won't help you," she said, not unkindly, but with a firmness that left no room for protest. "You lost them, so find them yourself. I'm busy making lunch."
Her tone was calm, even—but it carried the weight of finality. Like the click of a door being shut, not slammed. A quiet boundary drawn in flour-dusted lines.
Mansh stood frozen for a moment longer.
He wanted to argue. To insist. To say it wasn't just about the keys. That something was wrong. That the air in his room hadn't felt right since that moment. That everything inside him was still trembling.
But instead, he simply watched her back. The way she leaned forward slightly. The way her arm moved. The way the kitchen felt like it belonged to another world—a safer, smaller world untouched by the shadow that had stood in his room.
And just like that, the moment passed.
He took a step back, the floor cool beneath his bare feet.
The search would continue—alone.
Mansh exhaled, the sound barely more than a breath escaping through clenched teeth. It wasn't loud, not meant for anyone else to hear—just a private release of the tension that had wound itself tightly in his chest.
The kind of sound that came not from pain, but from sheer mental exhaustion. A low groan, born from everything piling up inside.
His shoulders sagged slightly as he turned away from the kitchen, his body moving as if it were heavier than usual, weighed down by invisible hands. His fingers reached up and threaded through his hair with absentminded pressure, raking slowly from front to back. They caught for a moment in the strands near the crown of his head, but he didn't care. He kept them there, gripping lightly, grounding himself.
The frustration was no longer sharp. It had dulled into something quieter, but no less present. Like a low-burning flame flickering just behind his ribs.
He took a step away from the stove. Then another. His feet dragged slightly against the floor, making a soft whispering sound as they moved. He didn't bother to lift them properly. His body was still reacting to the remnants of fear, to confusion, to the growing urgency he couldn't quite put into words.
As he crossed the threshold into his room, his gaze wandered aimlessly, half-focused, like his mind was still elsewhere.
And then—something caught his eye.
It was small. Subtle. Ordinary.
But it stilled him.
There, beside his shoes, slumped lazily against the wall, was his school bag. Its top was unzipped just enough to reveal a mess of books and papers inside, one strap half-folded beneath the weight of its own careless drop. The fabric sagged in on itself, like it had been tossed down at the end of a long day without thought, and left untouched since.
His eyes lingered on it, and for a few seconds, his thoughts didn't quite connect.
It was just… his bag.
But slowly, something shifted in his mind. A thread pulled taut. The fog began to part.
His brow furrowed.
And then—like a puzzle piece sliding into place—came the memory.
He remembered the weight of the bag slung over one shoulder. The uneven bounce of it against his back as he pedaled. The metallic click of his bicycle's gears. The sun filtering through the trees that lined the school road. The faint squeak of the brakes when he'd leaned forward to stop.
'Wait…' The word echoed in his mind like a voice from a distance. 'Last time I went to school… I took my bicycle.'
The realization was quiet, but unmistakable.
And with it came the next thought—inevitable and sudden.
'The keys… they must be in there.'
His pulse quickened—not with fear this time, but with something gentler, steadier– Hope. It crept into his chest like the faintest light under a door, subtle but unmistakable. For the first time in what felt like hours, his body responded without resistance.
He stepped forward, slowly at first, then with building urgency. The school bag sat there, slumped against the wall like a forgotten thought.
Its fabric was slightly crumpled, the zipper partially open, as though it had been hastily dropped after a long day.
He dropped to his knees beside the bag, not with drama, but with a quiet, focused determination. The floor was cold beneath his knees, the wood unyielding. He barely noticed.
His fingers reached for the zipper. It caught at first, snagging near a worn patch in the fabric. He adjusted his grip and tugged again. This time it slid open, teeth separating with a low, uneven rasp that filled the stillness of the room. The sound was oddly satisfying—sharp, mechanical, real.
He paused for half a breath.
Then, with both hands, he opened the bag fully, spreading the flap aside. His fingers slipped inside, disappearing into the familiar clutter. The interior was dark, cluttered, and warm from the insulation of its contents.
Papers crackled beneath his touch, their edges dry and curled. The spine of a textbook pressed up against his wrist. Pens rolled away from his fingers as he shifted things aside. There was a plastic wrapper—crinkled, probably from an old biscuit—and the faint scent of ink, paper, and sweat from days gone by.
He moved with a quiet urgency, sifting through the contents like a miner feeling through gravel for a glint of gold. His heart thudded louder with every passing second.
And then—his fingers brushed something cool.
He froze.
There it was again.
Cold. Smooth. Familiar.
His breath hitched, the sensation sending a jolt through his arm. Carefully, almost reverently, he closed his fingers around it. The shape was unmistakable: the uneven arrangement of keys, the distinct edge of the small bottle-opener keychain hanging from the ring. He didn't even have to look.
He knew.
Slowly, he drew his hand out of the bag.
The keys emerged like treasure from the deep—slightly tangled, slightly scratched, but undeniably real.
There they were.
Nestled in the center of his palm.
He stared at them in silence, his chest rising and falling with a quiet, invisible weight. They felt heavier than usual. Not in mass, but in meaning. Something about holding them now, after everything, made the moment feel significant.
A breath escaped him. Long. Controlled. Somewhere between a sigh and a quiet laugh.
He had them.
Finally.
******
A/N: Mansh finally found the keys , Mansh rush to the hospital noowww.
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