The struggle he had been through for the past 16 years of his life—and was still struggling with—had made Feroz brave.
So brave that now, he was not afraid of anything.
Except that dream.
The dream of a man sitting beside a grave.
Feroz had no one in his life.
No family.
No friend.
The only companion he had was his shadow—
It stayed with him in the light…
But left him the moment darkness took over.
Walking around a silent street corner, everything covered in darkness, the air heavy and still—
Feroz searched for a medical store.
Not to buy.
To break in.
To steal medicine for his wounded foot.
After walking a mile or two, he spotted someone standing outside a medical store.
Locking it.
Feroz stopped.
Watched.
Calculated.
An opportunity.
A good one.
Money.
Medicine.
He wasn't going to miss it.
Slowly—
He reached into his pocket…
Pulled out a knife…
And began walking toward the man.
The man had no idea.
Not yet.
Step by step—
Closer.
Closer.
Until—
Feroz stood right behind him.
In one swift motion—
The knife pressed against the man's neck.
The keys were taken.
No hesitation.
"Don't do anything stupid," Feroz warned quietly.
"Or you'll lose your life."
The man—young, around twenty—froze.
Then surrendered.
Feroz unlocked the store and pushed him inside.
Behind the counter—
He found a rope.
Tied his hands.
Tied his feet.
Secured.
Controlled.
"Which one?" Feroz asked, pointing toward the shelves.
"My foot… it's injured."
The man nodded quickly.
Directed him.
Feroz searched—
Found the medicine.
Fast.
Efficient.
Then—
He looked at the cash counter.
Paused.
Thought.
And made his decision.
He took the money too.
For a moment—
He stood there.
Looking around.
The store was old.
Unmaintained.
Neglected.
Just like the man tied behind him.
He had what he needed.
Medicine.
Money.
Enough to survive a little longer.
He walked toward the door.
Stopped.
Turned back.
And untied the man's hands.
"Goodbye," Feroz said quietly.
Then ran.
The road stretched ahead of him—
Empty.
Dark.
Silent.
He didn't look back.
Didn't check if anyone was following.
He just ran.
Fifteen minutes later—
He reached his shack.
Collapsed inside.
"Seventeen years…"
He muttered while applying medicine to his wound.
"And still running."
A pause.
"…for how long?"
He looked at the money.
Counted it.
20,000 rupees.
Not much.
But enough.
If used carefully.
He knew one thing—
This couldn't continue forever.
This life.
This running.
This surviving.
He had to choose.
Stay like this—
Or find out who he really was.
And change everything.
After a few minutes of thinking—
The answer became clear.
There was only one place to begin.
The orphanage.
The place he ran from.
Five years ago.
He took the painkillers.
Lay down.
Closed his eyes.
And once again—
The dream returned.
The same man.
The same grave.
Waiting.