Midnight Mist

Eyes Filled With Tears

At the police station, Gagan is absorbed in his work, surrounded by stacks of files and documents. The case of the murder has been weighing heavily on his mind, and he’s doing everything he can to make sense of the details. The investigation has been difficult, with missing pieces and unexplainable circumstances.

As he sifts through his notes, the door to his office creaks open. An officer enters, holding a new envelope. He walks over to Gagan’s desk, a sense of urgency in his step.

“Sir, we just received the final post-mortem report, along with the identification,” the officer says, placing the envelope on the desk.

Gagan looks up, surprised. “Finally? That’s... unexpected,” he murmurs, taking the report. He’s been prepared for another dead end, so this new development is both surprising and a relief.

He opens the file and begins reading, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the details. The name, which had been missing for days, is finally there. Gagan’s face turns thoughtful as he considers the implications.

“So, this person... they had no known connection to the Sharma family or their friends?” he asks the officer, as if needing to confirm.

The officer nods. "That’s correct, sir. No records link them to any of our previous suspects."

After confirming the identity of the victim through post-mortem, Gagan takes a deep breath and picks up the phone to call the elderly parents of the deceased. He knows this conversation will be difficult. They had already been informed that the body found might be their missing son, but now the confirmation weighed heavily on him.

The phone rings, and after a few moments, a frail voice answers on the other end.

"Namaste," Gagan begins, his voice steady but compassionate. "I’m calling from the police station. We… we have the final confirmation about your son’s identity. Could you please come to the station to take care of… formalities?"

The line goes silent for a moment, and he hears a faint sniffle, then a shaky "Yes, sir. We’ll come right away."

A short while later, the elderly couple arrives at the station. They move slowly, the woman clutching the edge of her sari, her husband’s hand on her shoulder as they enter. Their faces are drawn with sadness but also a quiet, accepting dignity — the gentleness of people unaccustomed to navigating such tragedy.

Gagan rises to meet them and gestures for them to sit down. "Please, have a seat," he says gently.

As the elderly couple sits across from Gagan, the weight of their grief fills the small room. The mother’s eyes glisten with unshed tears, her gaze distant as if she’s seeing memories of her son flash before her — his laughter, his childhood moments, the small things only a mother holds in her heart. A single tear escapes, rolling slowly down her weathered cheek, but she quickly wipes it away, her hand trembling slightly. She tries to maintain her composure, but the sadness in her eyes is unmistakable.

The father sits beside her, shoulders slumped, his eyes red and swollen, holding back his own grief. His hands, rough from years of labor, grip his knees tightly, his knuckles turning white as he fights to stay strong for his wife. Yet, every few moments, he glances away, blinking rapidly, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths as he tries to suppress the sobs that threaten to escape.

“We… we hoped he might come back to us,” he manages to say in a quiet, broken voice, his words almost a whisper. “But now… knowing he’s gone… there’s nothing left to hope for.”

The mother reaches out, placing her hand gently on her husband’s, her fingers entwining with his in shared sorrow. “He was such a good boy… never caused us any trouble. I still don’t understand why… why this happened to him…” Her voice cracks, and the tears she’s been holding back spill freely now.

Gagan watches silently, his own heart heavy. He hands them a few tissues, feeling the immense pain radiating from them as they sit together, bonded in their unimaginable loss. He can only offer them a quiet nod, a gesture of empathy, as they gather themselves to take their son home one last time.

The woman’s eyes fill with tears, but she sits straight, gathering strength. "Please, sir," she says softly, "we’re ready to take him home."

Gagan nods solemnly, and after a few quiet words, he arranges for the paperwork and formalities. He watches as they leave, carrying with them the immense burden of grief but also the strength to honor their son’s memory.

As the mother wipes her eyes, her voice trembles as she looks at Gagan. “Please… please, find the person who did this to our son,” she pleads, her hands shaking as they clutch her husband’s. “We are poor, illiterate people, but we know what’s right. We want justice. We just want to know why he had to die like this. Who did this to him?”

The father, his voice low but filled with raw emotion, adds, “My son was a good boy. He didn’t deserve this. He worked hard. We worked hard. Please, don’t let his death be in vain. We may not know much, but we know one thing... someone has to pay for what they did.”

Gagan nods solemnly, his face filled with a quiet resolve. “We’ll do everything we can to find the person responsible. I promise you, we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

The mother looks down at her hands, then back at Gagan, her eyes filled with hope and despair in equal measure. “Thank you. Thank you for at least caring enough to listen. We’ll wait. But please… hurry.”

The police officer leads them to the door, and Gagan watches silently as the elderly couple leaves the station, the mother’s shoulders hunched in sorrow as she clutches the small, tattered cloth that covers her son’s body. Her husband walks beside her, his face drawn with grief, but there is a sense of determination in their steps. They may be poor, illiterate, but they still possess the strength of a parent’s love for their child, even in the face of such overwhelming loss.

The door shuts behind them with a soft thud, leaving Gagan standing in the middle of the station, his mind racing. He watches the couple disappear into the distance, a sense of urgency pressing down on him. The case is still unsolved, the mystery of their son’s death yet to unfold. The murder remains a haunting puzzle, with the pieces scattered, waiting to be pieced together.

The case, he knows, isn’t over. Not yet. And though the weight of the investigation feels heavy, it’s clear that justice for the grieving parents is still a long way off.