A sudden scream.
Evan's breath hitched. His mother.
His body moved before his mind could process it. He threw open the door and saw her rushing toward the entrance, her long scarf slipping from her shoulder. His grandmother and aunts ran after her, their voices a blur of panic.
What's happening?
His feet followed instinctively, but Nilima aunt turned back sharply.
"Stay inside!" she ordered.
Evan froze for a second. But only for a second.
His mother was out of sight. His aunts were disappearing down the stairs. His heartbeat roared in his ears.
He ran.
The stairs felt longer today—each step heavier.
When he finally reached the ground floor, he saw the commotion outside. A crowd had gathered a short distance from their house. People whispering, murmuring, gasping.
And then there he saw the crane.
Why was there a crane? Why was it inside the drainage?
His aunties were standing near it. But his mother—where was she?
His chest tightened. His vision blurred. He forced himself to step forward, past the murmuring crowd, past the strange, heavy silence that had fallen over them.
Then he saw her.
She was kneeling beside the drainage. Sobbing. Her fingers clutching the muddy ground as if she was holding onto something she couldn't bear to lose.
Something was being pulled up.
Evan's breath caught in his throat.
The crane's rusted chains creaked as it lifted a figure from the water. Mud dripped. Blood stained the concrete. The uniform—his father's uniform.
Evan's body went cold.
"Dad."
The word barely left his lips.
His father's body dangled in the air, lifeless, torn apart. His chest, shoulder, arms—shredded.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. And there Seven. Seven gunshots.
Evan's hands trembled. His knees felt weak.
That was the same chest Evan used to bury himself into, the same arms that once lifted him high in the air, the same hands that ruffled his hair.
Now—ruined.
His father's face was barely recognizable, caked with dirt and dried blood. But beneath it all, there was something—a quiet, unwavering pride.
The pride of a martyr.
Evan's mother let out a wail that shattered whatever was left of his heart.
She threw herself onto the ground as the crane carefully lowered the body. The moment it touched the earth, she collapsed onto it, shaking him, holding his lifeless hand.
"Why? WHY?"
Her cries clawed at the sky.
"You told me not to worry, that you would take care of everything! Where are you now?"
Her fingers trailed over his bloodied chest,
"Why did you die for this ungrateful country? They killed their own savior".
People whispered around them.
"He tried to escape through the drainage."
"The hyenas wouldn't even spare him there."
"How could they do this?"
"What will happen to his family now? To that little boy?"
Evan heard them, but they sounded distant—like voices trapped in another world.
His eyes locked onto his father's face.
The man who taught him how to ride a bicycle. Who tucked him in at night. Who told him he was proud of him.
Now, motionless. Cold.
His mother sobbed into his father's chest, her body shaking violently. But Evan—he couldn't move.
How could he face his father when he couldn't even call out to him?
Tears spilled down his cheeks,
"Dad… my hero, my everything…"
Evan took a shaky step forward. His whole body felt numb, like he was walking through a nightmare.
Then—he fell to his knees.
His hands trembled as he reached out. Slowly, he hugged him.
Tightly.
Just like he used to when he was little. Just like he always did when his father came home.
But this time—his father didn't hug him back.
His arms remained wide open, frozen in death.
The warmth was gone. The strength. The heartbeat.
Nothing.
His father was gone.
When the funeral began. The sky darkened. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the clouds in soft pinks and purples.
A soft, cruelly beautiful end to a day that had shattered his world.
And just like that, history buried another name.
A dark, dirty chapter ended.
And with it, the proud, painful story of a martyr.