Chapter 17: The Calm Before the Call to Action
The house smelled of roasted garlic, caramelising onions, and the sharp bite of peppercorns. It wasn't anything fancy—just pasta, soft rolls, and Zoey's attempt at a salad overloaded with croutons—but to Rishi Malhotra, it tasted like something sacred.
It was the night before the storm.
The cameras hadn't rolled yet. The cranes hadn't blocked traffic. The schedules hadn't clashed. But they were close. Too close. Production officially began in three days.
Tonight was for breathing.
Rishi set the last dish on the table and called out, "Dinner! No laptops, no pencils, no discussions about framing shots, please."
Ayaan and Zoey appeared from their shared workspace like they'd been summoned by spellwork. Both still had graphite smudges on their fingers.
"Wait, is this a trap?" Zoey asked, peering at the table.
"It smells like food, but it feels like an ambush," Ayaan added, sliding into his seat.
Rishi chuckled as he filled their plates. "It's called a family dinner. You've been avoiding them for six months."
"Because we've been building a movie," Ayaan protested, but he was already digging into the pasta.
"Your film can wait thirty minutes," Rishi said, pouring juice into mismatched glasses. "Besides, I've got something to share."
Zoey looked up, curious. "News?"
Rishi nodded and reached into his back pocket, pulling out a folded calendar page and a production breakdown.
Brenda finalised the timeline today. If everything stays on schedule," he said, tapping the printout, "you'll wrap shooting by mid-October. Post-production by mid-November. And if the editing gods smile on us..."
He looked up, smiling.
"...your movie will hit theatres December 24th, 1998."
Ayaan blinked. "Christmas Eve?"
"Holiday release," Rishi confirmed. "If it lands right, you'll be playing in matinees and evening slots across L.A., maybe even New York."
Zoey's fork clattered onto her plate. "We'll be... a Christmas movie?"
"A real one," Rishi said. "One of those films families see together after wrapping presents. You'll be the reason people laugh during the most magical week of the year."
Ayaan looked down at his plate. "That's... big."
"Terrifying," Zoey added.
"Good," Rishi said softly. "It should be."
The moment settled like warm candlelight. Outside, crickets chirped lazily. Inside, the only sound for a while was the clinking of forks against ceramic.
Ayaan's POV
Halfway through his second helping, Ayaan paused and looked up at his father.
"This all started with a book in a bookstore," he said.
"And a dream," Zoey added.
"And a dragon egg," Ayaan smiled, then went quiet. "Sometimes I forget I'm only eight."
Rishi gave him a long, quiet look. "Sometimes I forget, too."
Ayaan tilted his head. "Is that... good or bad?"
"It's what it is," Rishi replied, leaning back. "You've done something few adults ever do—you followed a spark. And you didn't wait for permission."
He looked between the two kids. "You two... made something real. Something no one gave you. That's rare. That's..." he exhaled, almost overwhelmed, "...why I'm proud of you. Not because this movie might be good. But because you made it happen."
Zoey's Turn
Zoey didn't respond right away. She traced her finger over the condensation on her glass.
"I used to think Christmas was the saddest time of year," she admitted quietly. "Too quiet. Too many memories."
Rishi and Ayaan waited.
"But this year... I think it's gonna feel different."
She didn't need to explain. Her father's badge still sat on her desk. His old LAPD sweatshirt still hung in her closet. He wouldn't be forgotten—but he wouldn't be her shadow either. Not anymore.
"And my mom," Zoey added softly. "She sent a postcard."
Rishi nodded. "From Cyprus, right?"
"Yeah," she said, smiling a little. "She said she'd be home soon. Maybe not by Christmas, but soon."
Ayaan reached into his hoodie pocket and quietly handed her a folded sheet of paper.
She opened it. Inside was a simple drawing: a Christmas tree lit with floating candles. Two small children stood beneath it—one in pigtails, one holding a clapperboard.
"Merry almost Christmas," Ayaan mumbled.
Zoey looked up, her eyes suspiciously shiny. "Thanks, dork."
"Anytime, weirdo."
Rishi raised his glass. "To the best two filmmakers I know."
Zoey lifted hers. "Too weird, big dreams."
Ayaan grinned. "To dragons. And dreams that don't die."
They clinked their cups together.
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Rishi stayed behind after clearing the plates. The kids had gone back to their notebooks, whispering over lighting cues and laugh beats.
He stood in the kitchen, looking out the window.
When he first stepped into this house, he'd carried grief on his shoulders and bitterness in his bones. He'd expected to raise his son quietly. Privately. Away from spotlights.
Now, the house felt like a studio—alive with invention, humming with the future.
Let them run, he thought.
Let them build everything I couldn't.
He turned off the light and walked down the hall toward his children—their laughter bubbling like a first take, bright and unrepeatable.
Later that night, after Zoey had gone to bed and Ayaan was pretending to sleep (but probably still drawing storyboard updates under his blanket), Rishi sat in the dining room with a stack of papers spread out before him.
At the centre was the draft contract, neatly stapled and marked with sticky notes. On the cover:
Project Title: "Left Behind" – Co-Production Agreement
Prepared by: Halcyon Studios, with Executive Advisor John Hughes
The contract was... unorthodox.
Hughes had insisted.
"If the kid's the spark," he'd said, jabbing a finger at Ayaan, "then he deserves more than a pat on the head."
Rishi had agreed—but he still couldn't believe it.
Each of them had a share.
Ayaan Malhotra – 8% of global business, credited as "Story Creator" and Lead Actor.
Zoey Whitaker – 5%, "Concept Artist and Visual Consultant."
Rishi Malhotra – 15%, as Producer and Supporting Actor.
John Hughes – 20%, returning as Co-Writer and Co-Producer.
Halcyon Studios / Distribution Partners – 52%.
They all had points. Real points. In a real film.
Rishi ran his fingers over the numbers again, half-dizzy. If this film performed even moderately well, Ayaan and Zoey could have college funds, houses, futures...
But that was a big if.
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Despite their test footage, their pitch deck, and John Hughes' name on the header, most studios still gave them the same response:
"Kids behind the camera? A kid in front of the camera? Unproven IP? Family comedy? It's not market-tested."
And so, for weeks now, Rishi had done what he swore he'd never do again.
He'd begged.
He'd reached out to dusty contacts: former assistants turned agents, and a soap opera actor he'd once directed in 1988, who now sold yachts in Marina del Rey.
He'd put his own house up as partial collateral.
He'd maxed out two credit cards.
"I'm too old for this hustle," he muttered into his coffee one morning, staring at a spreadsheet where the numbers refused to add up.
They still needed a final $350,000 to secure location permits, a second camera unit, and key crew salaries.
Their line producer was working miracles, but miracles needed receipts.
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After the kids had gone to bed, Rishi dialled a number he'd been putting off.
A man named Devon Chen, a retired Bollywood financier turned eccentric in L.A. A sharp-eyed, sharper-tongued risk-taker who once invested in a doomed sci-fi musical.
"You want me to fund a Christmas movie," Devon said flatly. "Starring your seven-year-old son."
Rishi didn't flinch. Written by John Hughes. Scored by Alan Pasternak. With holiday potential and international flavour."
There was silence on the line.
Then Devon asked, "Why now, Malhotra?"
Rishi exhaled. "Because for the first time in my life, I'm not chasing a dream for myself. I'm protecting a flame someone else lit. Two someones, actually."
More silence.
Finally: "Send me the deck. And the kid's screen test."
Rishi sat back, his hand trembling.
Maybe.
Just maybe.