Where He Stayed - Epilogue

Years later.

That night, the house was quiet.

Mom had already gone to sleep, but my sister couldn’t.

She came to my room, curled up on the edge of my bed, and asked,

“Akka… do you remember our brother?”

She was only ten back then.

But even ten-year-olds remember things that matter.

Especially when it’s about someone you once loved.

I nodded. “Of course I do.”

She asked if I missed him.

If I thought he was ever truly happy.

And I didn’t lie.

I told her about the version of him I believed in —

the one who smiled, who carried her on his shoulders,

the one who laughed when dad told his dry jokes.

I told her he was someone we loved.

Someone we still carry in bits, whether we say his name or not.

She smiled, like a child being handed back a soft, safe memory.

She fell asleep with that version of him —

the one we could hold without hurting.

I stepped out quietly.

Into the backyard.

The night air was cold, and the moon hung low, watching me like it knew.

And I thought about him.

About what really happened.

About the man who let his wife disappear.

The man who trusted the wrong people, who silenced us, who changed.

And I asked myself again:

Why didn’t we take him?

Why didn’t we stay longer, fight harder?

But then, I remembered—

We didn’t leave him because we stopped loving him.

We left him…

Because he no longer wanted to be saved.

Because he had already chosen to stay behind —

in that house,

in those secrets,

in the darkness he made his home.

He stopped asking for help.

He stopped being our brother, long before we left.

It’s easy to say we could’ve done more.

But sometimes, choosing to live

means walking away from someone you love —

when they no longer walk toward you.

I miss him.

I still miss the brother I knew.

The one who made us laugh, who carried our bags,

who whispered stories under a pillow-fort.

But that boy disappeared long before we left.

And this—this life we built—

isn’t the same as what we had.

But it’s real. It’s ours.

It’s quiet, safe…

and it doesn’t ask us to forget,

just to keep living.

“She’s even smaller than you were,” Arav whispered, leaning slightly toward the bundle in the crib.

Vaishnavi, standing on a stool beside him, frowned. “I was never that small.”

“You were,” he said, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “You looked like a potato. This one looks more like… a sleepy bean.”

Vaishnavi giggled, hands gripping the edge of the crib as she peered down at her new baby sister. Ishita yawned—a soft, wobbly little thing with fists curled tight like secrets.

“She doesn’t even open her eyes much,” Vaishnavi whispered. “How will she know it’s us?”

“She will,” Arav said, voice suddenly serious. “We’re her family. She’ll learn our voices, like how you learned.”

Vaishnavi turned toward him, surprised. “You remember that?”

He nodded. “You used to cry a lot. I had to sing to you to stop.”

She pouted. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” he grinned. “Wanna try singing to her now?”

Vaishnavi leaned closer to Ishita and hummed the first tune that came to mind—off-key, soft, made-up on the spot. Ishita shifted a little, then settled again.

The two older siblings looked at each other.

“She likes you,” Arav said quietly.

“She likes us,” Vaishnavi corrected, eyes glowing.

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