The morning of the funeral, the house was unusually quiet. There was no opera, no clanging of pans. Just the soft rustle of fabric.
In his room, Aman stood before the mirror, buttoning the collar of a white *kurta pajama*. The cotton was crisp and cool against his skin. It was traditional—what a son was supposed to wear to send his parents off in Indian culture—but to Aman, it felt like a costume.
He stared at his reflection. He looked the part. But inside? Nothing. He felt like a hollow shell, a squatter in a tragedy that wasn't his.
Okay, he thought, adjusting his cuffs. You need to sell this. If you don't cry, they'll think you're a sociopath. Or worse, an imposter. Think sad thoughts. The Iron Giant. "Superman." peek-a-boo from breaking bad.
The door creaked open. Cam poked his head in, his face a mask of solemn concern. He was holding a shoe box.
"Aman, sweetie," Cam whispered. "I know you're wearing the traditional white—which is stunning, by the way, very spiritual—but I thought we could ..."
He opened the box. Inside lay a black armband, a black pocket square, and what looked suspiciously like a small lace veil.
Mitchell appeared behind Cam, snatching the box away.
"He is an orphan, Cam, not a Victorian widow," Mitchell hissed. "And put the veil away. We are going to a cremation, not a casting call for *American Horror Story*."
"I am just trying to facilitate the mourning process!" Cam whispered back loudly. "Some people need props, Mitchell!"
Aman turned to them. He didn't smile. He couldn't risk breaking character now.
"I'm ready," Aman said softly.
Mitchell's expression softened instantly. "Okay. Let's go."
===
The crematorium was sterile and cold, a concrete building that dont look like a gateway to the afterlife.
The turnout was pitiful. A dozen people, mostly men in grey suits—colleagues from his father's software firm. They stood in loose clusters, checking their Blackberries and looking at their watches. There was no wailing, no sharing of stories. Just the low murmur of people wondering if they could get back to the office before lunch.
Cam was vibrating with indignation.
"Look at them," Cam whispered to Mitchell, gesturing aggressively with his head toward a man checking stock prices on his phone. "It's a shareholders meeting, not a funeral!Where is the rending of garments? These people are emotionally constipated!"
Mitchell shushed him, but he looked worried too. He kept glancing at Aman.
Aman stood by the front row, his hands clasped behind his back. He was perfectly still. Too still.
*Internal Analysis: My heart rate is steady. This is bad. I look like a statue. Mitch might thinks I'm in shock. Cam thinks I'm a robot. I need a tear. Just one. Come on, Iron Giant. "You stay, I go." No following.*
A man in a suit—his father's boss, probably—walked up to the podium. He cleared his throat.
"Raj was a... dedicated worker," the man droned. "His work was always clean. He will be missed."
That was it. That was the eulogy.
Aman stepped forward. It was time for the final rites.
He approached the platform where the photos of his parents were displayed next to the flower-draped casket. He looked at the faces in the frame. His father, stiff and unsmiling. His mother, looking tired but kind.
*Okay, Aman. Action. peek-a-boo*
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force a tear.
But, something unlocked in the back of his brain. A door kicked open by the sheer proximity to the dead.
A flash of a warm hand holding his. The smell of turmeric and rain. A voice saying, "My brave boy." His mother peek-a booing him as a baby . The sound of tires screeching.
It wasn't his memory. But the pain felt like his. The *original* Aman's grief—the grief that had killed him—surged up .
Aman gasped, his hand flying to his chest. His vision blurred, with tears.
"Mom? Dad?" he choked out.
The dam broke.
Aman's knees buckled. He gripped the edge of the platform, his shoulders shaking violently. A sob ripped out of his throat—a raw, ugly sound that echoed off the concrete walls.
"Oh, god," Cam's voice cracked from behind him.
In a second, Cam was there. He didn't ask. He just wrapped his large arms around Aman, pulling him into his chest . Cam started crying too .
"I know, I know!" Cam wailed, rocking him. "Let it out! We've got you!"
Mitchell stood a few feet away, stunned. He looked from the colleagues—who finally looked uncomfortable and put their phones away—to his partner and foster son clinging to each other.
Mitchell hesitated for a fraction of a second, unsure what to do, he steel himself before stepping in. He placed a firm, grounding hand on Aman's back, shielding him from the room.
***
The drive home was silent.
The air in the SUV felt heavy, but clear—like the sky after a thunderstorm.
Aman was slumped in the backseat, his head resting against the cool glass of the window. His eyes were red and puffy. He felt exhausted.
In the passenger seat, Cam was wiping his face with a tissue, looking equally wrecked.
"I'm dehydrated," Cam whispered hoarsely.
Aman took a shaky breath. He sat up slightly, looking at the back of Mitchell's head and Cam's profile.
"Thanks," Aman croaked. His voice was rough. "For being there. I... I couldn't have done that alone."
Mitchell looked in the rearview mirror. His eyes were kind. "You didn't have to."
===
The camera cuts to Aman sitting on the beige sofa. He is still wearing the white kurta, though the top button is undone. He looks rattled.
He stares into the camera lens, opens his mouth to speak, and then closes it. He looks away, rubbing the back of his neck .
AMAN(Whispering) "I don't know."
(He shakes his head, looking genuinely spooked)
AMAN "I... I don't know what just happened. "
(He taps his chest, right over his heart)
==
for getting first comment extra chapter