Kaal had never known what it meant to belong. Born an orphan, he grew up drifting from one neglected corner of society to another. He was passed around like a burden, shouldering silent trauma, enduring cold nights and colder hearts. But in the furnace of his suffering, Kaal forged a resilient, hopeful mind. He believed that perhaps one day, someone would see him, understand him, and stay.
That hope crystallized when he met her—the woman who became his first love, his first home. Her presence was like sunlight after endless rain. She smiled at his jokes, admired his resilience, and accepted his broken pieces. Kaal believed his time had finally come. He gave her everything—his money, his time, his loyalty, and the tenderness he had preserved despite a loveless childhood.
But one day, that fragile illusion shattered.
"I can't live with you anymore," she said, her voice void of empathy. "This is your limit. You can't make me any happier than this."
Her words fell like a blade, sharp and final. Kaal stood frozen, unable to process the cruelty behind the calmness of her tone. She had seen all he had to offer—and deemed it insufficient. She left without hesitation, and in doing so, took the last flicker of light from his world.
Alone once again, Kaal's thoughts turned inward, spiraling into the darkest corners of his mind. The ghosts of his childhood returned. He remembered the cold orphanage walls, the hunger, the silence, and the longing to be loved. The echoes of his past whispered to him relentlessly. "You were always alone. You will always be alone."
Day by day, his will to live began to wither. He stopped smiling. Conversations turned into nods, then silence. He became a shadow in his workplace, his performance slipping until he was let go. No one fought for him. No one cared. Colleagues who once praised him now used him as a scapegoat. Even his former lover, who had once clung to him in desperation, had only seen him as a financial crutch.
Devastated and directionless, Kaal made a decision. He left his old apartment and moved to a distant town, far from the memories that suffocated him. He took on two grueling part-time jobs just to survive. His days were long, his nights longer. He ate minimally, spoke rarely, and lived mechanically. Hope, once the core of his identity, had vanished entirely.
Until one evening, when fate gently nudged him.
The air was cool, the sky painted in fading orange. Kaal walked home with sore feet and an aching back. As he passed by a small pet shop, a strange sound caught his attention—soft yips and chirps from inside. For reasons he couldn't explain, he paused and looked through the glass.
Inside the shop, a large cage held a cluster of puppies. Most of them tumbled over each other, barking and playing. But one—milky white with deep, searching eyes—remained still. It stared at Kaal with unwavering focus. Wherever Kaal moved, its eyes followed. Not with aggression or fear—but curiosity. Recognition.
Drawn in by something unspoken, Kaal entered the store. The shopkeeper barely glanced up. Kaal approached the cage, and as he neared, the white puppy leapt toward him. It didn't bark. It didn't hesitate. It simply launched itself into Kaal's arms and began licking his face enthusiastically, its tail wagging like a heartbeat.
Kaal stood frozen again—but this time not in pain. Something stirred in his hollow chest. Something warm.
He bought the puppy that night, spending more money than he should have. He named him Rambo, but affectionately called him Ram. Raising a dog wasn't easy, especially on a tight budget. But Ram didn't care about finances or social status. He cared only about Kaal. He was loyal, playful, and always by his side.
In Ram's company, Kaal began to heal. Slowly. Steadily. His laughter returned in quiet bursts. He started cooking again—not for necessity, but for joy. Ram greeted him every day like it was the best moment of his life. He was more than a pet. He was family.
They explored the outskirts of town together. Camped under starlit skies. Watched sunrises and played in rainstorms. Ram pulled Kaal out of isolation with nothing but unconditional love. The days turned into months, then years. Seven full years passed like a dream.
But no dream can last forever.
Ram started to slow down. His once playful energy turned into quiet naps. He struggled to eat. His steps faltered. Kaal, terrified, took him to a vet. The diagnosis was cruel but clear—Ram was nearing the end.
Kaal did everything he could. He fed him by hand, stayed up with him through the night, whispered stories and thanks into his ears. And then, one cold morning, Ram took his final breath in Kaal's arms.
The silence that followed was louder than anything Kaal had ever known.
Losing Ram was worse than losing his lover. Ram had never betrayed him, never judged him. He had stayed. And now he, too, was gone.
Kaal spiraled again—but this time there was no spark left to fight it. He stopped eating. He didn't work. The light in his eyes faded. Two years passed in filth and solitude. Eventually, his body, like his spirit, gave in.
He died quietly, slumped in his room—surrounded by the decay of a life that had once longed for more.
He thought that was the end.
But something—beyond time, beyond life—had been watching.