Samye ran.
Not away from the town—
but back into what remained of his home.
The door hung crooked on its hinges, blackened by fire. The smell of smoke still clung to the walls, sharp and bitter, like something that refused to leave. Ash coated the floor where furniture once stood. The roof above the living room had partially collapsed, letting moonlight spill into the ruins like a cruel reminder that time had not stopped with his parents’ deaths.
This was the house where he was born.
This was the house where his mother once laughed.
This was the house where his father used to sit in silence after long days, believing the world could still be protected.
Now it was hollow.
Samye stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
The sound echoed louder than it should have.
He did not cry.
He sank down against the wall and stared at the floor, his back pressed against scorched wood. Every corner of the house held a memory, and none of them belonged to him anymore.
The kitchen.
He could still see his mother there, sleeves rolled up, scolding him gently for skipping meals. He whispered without realizing it.
“Ma…”
The word disappeared into the silence.
No footsteps came.
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No reply followed.
He moved into the next room, stepping carefully around broken glass and burned beams. His father’s chair still stood in the corner, half-charred but upright—as if refusing to fall even after everything had been taken.
Samye stood in front of it for a long time.
“Papa…” he said softly.
His voice cracked for the first time since the massacre.
Nothing answered him.
The house didn’t feel empty.
It felt crowded—
with voices that would never speak again.
He wandered from room to room like a ghost himself.
The bedroom where his parents once slept.
The corner where his school bag used to lie.
The wall where his height had been marked year after year.
Every memory stabbed deeper than the last.
This wasn’t just a house.
This was his entire world.
And in one day, it had been erased.
Outside, he could hear people moving. Neighbors passing by. Doors closing. Voices lowering when they noticed the house still had someone inside it.
No one came.
Not a single relative.
Not a single neighbor.
Not a single friend.
The society his father once protected had already forgotten him.
Forgotten them.
Samye finally understood something that made his chest tighten painfully.
They didn’t turn against his family because they were criminals.
They turned against them because it was convenient.
No one wanted the truth.
No one wanted justice.
They wanted a story that allowed them to sleep at night.
And blaming the dead was the easiest choice.
He sat on the floor until dawn.
Hours passed. Or maybe days. Time had started to lose meaning.
His faith in humanity—something he never questioned before—crumbled quietly inside him. It didn’t shatter loudly. It didn’t explode.
It simply… vanished.
Like smoke in the air.
His parents were gone.
His home was gone.
His name was poisoned.
There would be no one left to remember him.
No neighbors to say, he was a good boy.
No friends to say, his parents were kind people.
No society to defend the man his father was.
The dream his parents lived for—the dream of protecting people, of building something better—lay broken at his feet, shattered into millions of invisible pieces.
Samye curled into himself, arms wrapped tightly around his knees.
For the first time since the fire, something inside him truly collapsed.
Not his body.
Not his will.
But his belief that this world was ever fair.
As morning light filtered through the broken roof, Samye stared at the dust floating in the air. He wondered how something so small could still exist when his entire life had disappeared overnight.
He stood up slowly.
The house didn’t feel like a home anymore.
It felt like a tomb.
And Samye knew, deep inside, that if he stayed any longer—
he would die here too.
