The day after the massacre, the town woke up to new posters.

  They were pasted on walls, electric poles, broken shop shutters, and even the school gate where Samye once waited for the morning bell. The paper was cheap, the ink still wet, but the words printed on them were heavy enough to crush a life.

  WANTED.

  Below it were the faces of his mother and father—faces that should have been laid to rest, faces that should have been mourned. Instead, they were branded criminals.

  The allegations were clear and cruel.

  Selling sensitive national information.

  Collaboration with terrorists.

  Traitors to the nation.

  Samye stood across the street, frozen, as people gathered around the posters. Some whispered. Some spat on the ground. Some tore the paper down only to paste it again somewhere more visible.

  Over a single night, his family name was rewritten.

  Not murdered.

  Not betrayed.

  Declared enemies of the country.

  By sunset, the word anti-national followed him like a shadow.

  The cremation happened without prayers.

  No final words. No folded hands. No tears from the crowd.

  Samye stood there as the flames rose, his parents’ bodies burning in front of his eyes. The fire cracked and roared, devouring everything they once were—their kindness, their sacrifices, their quiet lives.

  He waited for someone to step forward.

  Someone to place a hand on his shoulder.

  Someone to say this isn’t right.

  Someone to ask what really happened.

  No one came.

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  The smoke burned his eyes, but he didn’t blink. His chest felt hollow, like something vital had been carved out and replaced with nothing. He did not cry. Not because he was strong—but because something inside him refused to respond anymore.

  As the flames climbed higher, he felt eyes on him.

  Cold. Sharp. Unfamiliar.

  He turned.

  The crowd stood there—neighbors, teachers, shopkeepers, people who once smiled at his parents. Among them were faces he knew better than anyone.

  Arjun stood near the back.

  His childhood friend. The boy who shared lunches with him, laughed with him, dreamed with him. Arjun wasn’t crying. He wasn’t angry either.

  He was staring at Samye like he was looking at a stranger.

  No—worse.

  Like he was looking at something dirty.

  Samye’s gaze moved again.

  Meera stood beside Arjun, her arms crossed tightly, lips pressed into a thin line. She had once waited for Samye after school, once defended him when others mocked his quiet nature.

  Now she shook her head slowly, as if disgusted.

  “I don’t want to see your face again,” she said loudly enough for others to hear.

  Her voice didn’t tremble.

  “Why don’t you just die with your parents?”

  The words landed harder than any blow.

  The crowd murmured in agreement.

  Then Arjun bent down.

  Samye watched in silence as his best friend picked up a stone from the ground. Their eyes met for a brief moment—just long enough for Samye to understand.

  There was no hesitation.

  The stone flew.

  It struck Samye’s shoulder and fell to the dirt. Pain bloomed, sharp and sudden, but Samye didn’t move. He didn’t raise his hands. He didn’t speak.

  That single stone changed everything.

  It told him what the world had decided.

  If even Arjun could throw it…

  Then there was nothing left to question.

  More stones followed.

  Not many. Just enough to make a point.

  By nightfall, Samye was no longer a grieving son. He was the traitor’s child.

  He returned to his house alone.

  The same house where he was born.

  The same walls that once echoed with laughter.

  The same rooms where his mother’s voice used to call him for meals.

  Now it felt like a grave that hadn’t been filled yet.

  He sat on the floor and stared at nothing.

  He did not eat.

  He did not drink.

  He did not sleep.

  Outside, whispers turned into hatred. Doors closed when he passed. Shopkeepers looked away. Even those with abilities—people who once respected his father—refused to acknowledge his existence.

  No one asked questions.

  No one demanded proof.

  The truth didn’t matter.

  Maybe it never had.

  Samye understood something terrifying during those hours of silence.

  They never loved his family.

  They feared them.

  They feared the power his father held, the influence, the authority. The respect was never earned—it was borrowed from fear. And fear disappears the moment power does.

  All it took was one poster.

  One accusation.

  One night.

  And years of goodwill vanished like smoke.

  Samye lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the scene of the burning pyres over and over again. The fire. The crowd. Arjun’s stone. Meera’s voice.

  He didn’t cry.

  Not because he didn’t feel pain.

  But because something deeper had broken.

  A belief.

  The belief that if you lived honestly, the world would protect you.

  The belief that good deeds mattered.

  The belief that people would stand by the truth.

  That belief died with his parents.

  And as the house fell silent around him, Samye realized something far more frightening than loneliness.

  This was the true face of society.

  And it had been watching him all along.