Gereksiz İntikam

64

Authors pov

The house was loud with grief.
But he—he was silent.

He sat on the staircase, back pressed to the wall, knees drawn up like a boy again.

From here, he could hear Shoaib yelling at someone over the phone.
Hear Danish vomiting in the downstairs washroom.
Hear Abraham breaking his third glass in the study.

And under it all?

The absence.

No soft footsteps of Dawood.
No faint hum of Taniya’s lullabies.
No laughter. No light. No her.

Taha pressed his fingers into his temples, as if the pain might help him think clearer.

Something about this didn’t feel random.
The timing. The precision. The way Theodore seemed ahead—every time. Like he could smell them coming.

Which meant—

“He’s not just feeding on her. He’s feeding on us,” Taha whispered to himself.

He stood. Walked upstairs. Entered Dawood’s empty room.

His chest tightened. The stuffed bear still sat on the bed, wearing the little scarf Taniya had stitched.

He closed the door behind him. Opened the drawer.

Sometimes, answers come from the ones too small to carry them.

The house was too quiet.

It wasn’t the silence of peace.

It was the silence of absence—the kind that creeps under your skin and makes you question if you’ll ever hear certain voices again.

He found Dawood sitting alone on the carpet near the window, clutching the sketchpad Taniya had given him.

His little fingers trembled, even as he tried to stay strong.
Like her.
Always like her.

Taha crouched beside him.
Didn’t say much.
Didn’t need to.

Dawood looked up.

Eyes red.
Face pale.
Lips dry.

“She not come back yet,” he whispered.

Taha swallowed. “Not yet, champ. But we’re trying.”

Dawood looked back down at the sketchpad.

“I draw her. Every day.”

Taha’s eyes softened.

Dawood was quieter than usual.

He sat on the floor, knees hugged to his chest, crayons scattered around him. His small hands moved slowly, drawing lines with unspoken grief. His head tilted. His lips mumbled to himself—just sounds, no words.

It had been months s since Taniya vanished.
But today…

Today he was drawing with purpose.

Not cartoons. Not blobs. But shapes. A structure. Repetitive.

A house.

A large, looming one. Ivy curling up the sides. A distinct rose-shaped glass window.

Taha’s breath caught.

“Dawood… what’s this, beta?” he asked gently.

The boy didn’t speak.

Just pointed at the red mark on the corner of the roof. Then hugged himself tighter.

Shoes tapped behind them—Shoaib’s.

He stopped when he saw the sketch.

Everything inside him went still.