I slammed the boy’s old schoolbag onto the floor and stared at the 12-year-old with cold, detached eyes.

He did not cry.

He simply bent his head, softly picked up his torn bag, turned, and walked away—without saying anything.

Ten years later, when the truth was eventually revealed, I desired more than anything that I could go back in time.

My name is Rajesh, and I was 36 when my wife, Meera, di:ed of a sudden str0ke.

She left behind more than just me—a 12-year-old son named Arjun.

But Arjun was not biologically my.

He was Meera’s son from a prior relationship.

Meera was 26 years old when I married her, and she had already experienced heartbreak – a love without a name, a pregnancy she carried alone.

“Get out.” I don’t care if you survive or di:e.

I expected him to cry. To beg.

But he did not.

He just departed.

I felt nothing.

I sold my house and moved.

Life continued on. Business prospered. I met another woman with no baggage and no children.

For several years, I had sporadic thoughts about Arjun.

Not out of anxiety, but out of curiosity.

Where is he now? Was he still alive?

However, time erases even interest.

A 12-year-old boy, alone in the world—where could he possible go?

I did not know.

I didn’t care.

I even persuaded myself, “If he’s dead, maybe it’s for the best.”

Ten years later.

I got a call from an unknown number.

“Hello, Mr. Rajesh? Would you be able to attend the grand opening of the TPA Gallery on MG Road this Saturday?
Someone very much hopes you’ll come.”

I was about to hang up — but the next sentence made my hand freeze:

“Don’t you want to know what happened to Arjun?”

My chest tightened.

That name — Arjun — I hadn’t heard it in ten years.

I paused. Then replied, flatly:

“I’ll come.”

The gallery was modern and full of people.

I strolled in, feeling oddly out of place.