He pushed the door open and stepped inside as he loosened his tie. Another long day. The familiar smell of curry drifted in from the kitchen-it always made the place feel like home.

“Water?” she called out, her voice warm and soft, just like always.

He nodded. “Thanks, love.”

She handed him the glass of water with that same warm smile she always wore. He sipped slowly as he watched her prepare her favorite food again, which he only liked because of her.

Before he could sit, tiny footsteps padded down the hallway.

“Dada!” his daughter shouted, running toward him, just like their daily ritual.

He bent down just in time to catch her, lifting her off the ground and spinning her around. Laughter filled the room as he pressed a kiss to her little forehead.

“Missed me?”

“Lots!” the child grinned. “Play Legos now?”

“After dinner, Princess.”

The dining table was neatly set for three. His wife placed the last dish - aloo bhindi (potatoes fried with ladyfingers), his favorite. They sat together, laughing, passing plates, sharing bites. His daughter told him about a new cartoon character. His wife reminded him gently to stop working late. It was perfect.

The phone rang.

Buzzing on the table, breaking the rhythm. He stared at it. An unknown anxiety fluttered in his chest. He picked it up.

His brother’s voice came through, low and cautious:

“Did you take your meds today?”

The laughter stopped. The table fell silent. He blinked.

His hands trembled as he looked around.

There was no one.

Just an untouched plate in front of him. A single glass. A child’s drawing on the fridge that hadn’t been updated in two years.

His brother’s voice grew gentle, almost pleading. “You need to stop hurting yourself like this.”

He hung up. Slowly. Quietly.

Then stood, walked to the cabinet,

and opened the pill bottle. He stared at it for a moment and closed it again.

He poured a glass of water.

“Dinner’s ready,” he said into the silence.

And sat at the table, smiling, as two shadows took their seats beside him.