It was Sunday—Kavir's day off. He lay flat on the creaky bed, eyes wide open, blankly staring at the ceiling above him. The fan spun lazily, making a dull clicking noise every few rotations. He didn't mind. It was white noise. Just like his thoughts—unmoving, dull, and repetitive.
After what felt like hours, he finally dragged himself up and pushed open the wooden door to his room. The building opened directly onto the main road—its face hidden behind old signboards, tangled wires, and a peeling blue shutter that hadn't rolled down in years.
The interior was simple—two rooms side by side, one of which was his, and a common bathroom that always smelled faintly of cheap soap and rusted metal. This humble setup wasn't an apartment.
It was a detective's office.
At the front of the room, behind a dusty desk stacked with yellowing files, sat a man who looked every bit his 65 years—grey-haired, wrinkled, yet sharp-eyed beneath those thick round spectacles. He wore a plain shirt and a cotton lungi, his sandals placed haphazardly under the desk.
His name was Ratan.
"Ah, Kavir," Ratan said, sipping his lukewarm chai. "It's your day off, no?"
Kavir's tangled hair hung over his face, obscuring any expression he might've had. He didn't respond.
"Then help me out today," Ratan added casually, motioning toward the files with his chin. "God knows this office doesn't clean itself."
Kavir grunted and dropped onto the sofa nearby, burying half his face into a dusty cushion.
The bell on the door jingled.
A man stepped in—clean-shaven, tall, and dressed in an expensive blazer despite the heat. Kavir, barely glancing up, noticed the polished shoes and heavy gold watch before closing his eyes again.
Ratan stood up, brushing invisible dust off his shirt. "Yes, sir?"
The man looked tense, his eyebrows knitted and lips pressed into a line. He reached into his coat and pulled out a photograph, placing it carefully on the table.
"My daughter," he said. "She's twenty. She's gone missing."
Ratan adjusted his glasses and looked at the photo. A young girl, smiling softly at the camera, her eyes full of life. "When did she leave?"
"Three days ago," the man replied. "Ran away with some boy. I don't know who. I just want to make sure she's safe."
Ratan leaned back, frowning slightly. "Why not go to the police?"
The man hesitated. "It's… a personal matter. I don't want it to become a public scandal."
Kavir's ears perked up slightly.
Ratan shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir. We're currently dealing with multiple cases. I can't take this one."
The man's jaw clenched. "Name your price."
He pulled out a cheque, already filled out for ₹2.5 lakhs, and placed it on the desk.
Ratan didn't even look at it. "No, sir. Money isn't the problem."
Fury flashed in the man's eyes, but it wasn't directed at Ratan. It came from somewhere deeper.
"You'll regret this," he snapped. "There are plenty of detectives in this city."
And with that, he stormed out.
The door swung closed with a thud.
Kavir slowly rose from the sofa, carrying a tray with two cups of tea, and placed one in front of Ratan. "We haven't had a case in two weeks," he said, voice flat. "That's why I'm working part-time."
Ratan chuckled. "You think I didn't know?"
"I'm just saying," Kavir continued, still calm, "we could've used the money."
Ratan looked at him with a strange mix of sternness and affection. "You think that was an ordinary case?"
Kavir shrugged. "There's a strong chance he didn't go to the police because he didn't want the story getting out."
Ratan's eyes narrowed. His posture straightened. "And if we had agreed to help?"
"He would've found her," Kavir said plainly. "And killed her. Maybe the boy, too."
Ratan stared at him for a long moment, then smiled—not out of happiness, but pride.
"That's my boy. Tea's on me today."
He leaned back in his chair, a satisfied grunt escaping his throat.
A few minutes passed in silence. Ratan's eyes fluttered closed, and his breathing slowed. Moments later, he was snoring softly in the chair, arms crossed over his chest.
Kavir watched him, his expression unreadable beneath the mess of his hair.
He thought back—seven years ago.
A time when everything was gone. His family. His home. Everything had burned down in the fire of fate.
And it was this old man, sitting here, who had pulled him from that void.
Ratan—who had lost his wife, his son, and his daughter-in-law in a car accident—took in a boy with nothing and gave him a place. Not just a roof. Not just a job.
A home.
Kavir leaned back on the sofa, closed his eyes, and whispered softly to himself.
"Sometimes, the only people who understand your silence… are the ones who've survived it."
Outside, the city roared on—buses honking, vendors shouting, tires screeching.
But inside that little detective office, on a sleepy Sunday, silence had a home too.