The air that morning felt unusually heavy.
Relatives, neighbors, and friends had filled the small house.
Incense smoke drifted softly through every corner.
MK's body rested peacefully, covered with a white cloth and flowers.
His parents sat close beside him — silent, exhausted, eyes red from crying.
Father (softly):
> "My son… you were too young."
His mother couldn't find the strength to speak.
She gently touched MK's hair, her tears falling quietly.
His elder brother stood a little away, fists clenched — trying, failing, trying again to stay strong.
When no one was watching, silent tears slipped down his cheeks.
Near the doorway stood Sandeep, holding the diary MK had given him.
His face was pale.
He wanted to scream, to shout, to cry —
but instead he stood completely still, absorbing the moment he never wanted to face.
Soft prayers filled the room.
The priest chanted mantras in a low voice.
When the final ritual began, the smoke slowly rose toward the sky.
Everything around them fell silent —
as if the
world itself had paused for MK.