The Moon Is Laughing At Me

The clock struck 10:45 PM. The stars were scattered like spilled sugar across the velvet-black sky. The moon, half-full and hauntingly bright, glowed over the city with an eerie stillness.

Nayan, with a bottle still clutched in his hand, stumbled down from the vast terrace of the mansion. His shirt clung to his chest, buttons undone, his hair disheveled from hours of wild wind and anguish. His steps were uneven, his breath hot with alcohol and heartbreak.

The grand marble stairs greeted him with indifference. In his rush to come down, he misjudged the last step.

THUD!

His foot twisted. His balance failed. One… two… four steps down he tumbled—rolling, crashing, the whiskey bottle slipping from his hand, glass shattering across the polished wooden floor of the living room.

"Dhhadaammm…"

The silence of the haveli shattered with him.

From a nearby hallway, a figure in a plain white kurta-pajama rushed in with urgency in his eyes and a trembling voice that held both fear and familiarity.

"Arey! Baba!! Kya hua sir?!"

It was Shakti Mausa—the oldest and most loyal servant of the house. The man who had raised Nayan like his own, after the child was abandoned by fate and adopted by the empire.

Nayan tried to sit up, his body aching, his hands trembling.

"Sir?" Mausa repeated, but Nayan cut in, his voice cracked and eyes glazed.

"Sir mat boliye Mausa… kam se kam aap toh nahi…"

("Don't call me 'sir', Mausa… at least you shouldn't…")

Shakti Mausa went silent. His heart sank at seeing his once mighty boy—shattered, bruised, and drowning in grief. Nayan looked up at the moonlight pouring through the window, his lips twisted into a sad, drunken smile.

"Mausa, dekho na… dekho toh sahi… chaand kitna sundar lag raha hai…"

("Mausa, just look… look how beautiful the moon looks tonight…")

Then his smile broke into a sob.

"Lekin mujhe lagta hai… chaand mujhe dekh kar hans raha hai… mera mazaak uda raha hai…"

("But I feel like the moon is laughing at me… mocking me…")

Shakti Mausa's eyes welled up. Slowly, gently, he knelt beside him and wrapped an arm around his shoulder.

"Chalo beta, andar chalo. Aap kaafi thak gaye ho. Bedroom mein chalke araam karo."

("Come on son, let's go inside. You're very tired. Let's get you to your bedroom and rest.")

Nayan didn't resist. He let himself be lifted like a broken child. Shakti Mausa walked him to his room, the hallway filled with nothing but the echo of their footsteps.

Once in the room, Mausa helped him lie down. Tucked him in. Then, like a father to a son, he gently placed a hand on his head.

"Sab theek ho jaayega beta… sab theek ho jaayega. Dhairya rakho. Har raat ke baad ek savera zaroor aata hai."

("Everything will be fine, my son… everything will be fine. Be patient. Every night is followed by a morning.")

And with that, Mausa turned off the lamp and quietly exited the room.

But Nayan didn't stay in bed.

Moments later, he slipped off the mattress like a weightless feather, collapsed onto the cold marble floor… and curled up there like a boy lost in time.

Tears silently soaked the sleeve of his shirt.

---

Scene Shift: Coffee & Cocaine Café – 11:30 PM

The Café's main hall was quiet now. Most customers had left. The only lights that remained were the warm glows over the reading corner, where Titli and Atharva had stayed behind to prep the adjoining Night Library Room.

Bookshelves were dusted. Candles were lit on the corners. A light drizzle began again outside, making soft tapping sounds on the glass windows.

Atharva placed a thick novel on the top shelf and turned around.

Titli stood near the table, her arms folded tightly.

"Sir…" she said after a long pause, her voice low, "Hum kitne din tak sach chhupa payenge?"

("Sir, how long can we keep hiding the truth?")

Atharva didn't respond at once. He looked at her, eyes soft but tired.

"Kya unko kabhi yaad nahi aayega?" she asked again.

("Will they really never remember?")

Atharva exhaled and leaned against the bookshelf.

"Kabhi na kabhi toh sach bahar aayega, Titli…"

("Someday, the truth will come out, Titli…")

He picked up a pen from the counter, spinning it between his fingers like he always did when thinking.

"Main janta hoon… jab woh din aayega… toh sab kuch palat jayega. Aur main sochta hoon, kya woh sach kabhi accept kar payegi?"

("I know… when that day comes… everything will change. And I wonder, will she be able to accept that truth?")

There was a long silence before he added—barely above a whisper.

"Main toh tab khud ko bhi maaf nahi kar paya tha jab maine yeh sach jaana…"

("I couldn't even forgive myself when I first learned the truth…")

Titli walked closer, her voice shaking.

"Agar usne yaad kar liya sab kuch… toh?"

("What if she remembers everything… then what?")

Atharva's hands trembled slightly.

He turned his gaze toward the black box tucked under the main library counter—the one with the silver key, still untouched.

"Toh yaad usse sab kuch dard dega… par jhoot aur bhi dard de raha hai, Titli…"

("Then the truth will hurt her… but this lie is hurting her too, Titli…")

They both stood in silence, the only sound now was the rain intensifying.

Somewhere far across the city, in a mansion torn between grief and vengeance, Nayan slept on the floor, clutching memories tighter than breath.

And somewhere nearby, Aagartha, unknowingly, stood on the edge of a revelation… one that would either unite all broken destinies or shatter them forever.