Days Remaining: 17 Bank Account: ₹600

The house was quiet. Not the peaceful kind of quiet. The heavy kind. The kind that felt like the air pressure was too high.

Elian stood at the top of the stairs. Downstairs, the TV was on. The 9:00 PM News. The universal soundtrack of his father’s emotional unavailability.

“You have to go down there,” Lyra said. She was floating cross-legged over the banister, looking down at the living room.

“I can't,” Elian whispered. “It's a war zone. Mom is stress-cleaning the kitchen and Dad is shouting at the news anchor.”

“Item #7,” Lyra reminded him. “Fix things with Mom and Dad. You can't fix them from up here, Elian. You have 17 days. Do you want your last conversation with them to be about taking out the trash?”

Elian gripped the railing. No. He didn't. He wanted them to know him. Or at least... see him.

“Fine,” Elian exhaled.

He walked down the stairs. The wood creaked. His dad didn't look up from the recliner. He was watching a debate about inflation. His mom was in the kitchen, aggressively scrubbing a pot that was already clean.

Elian walked into the kitchen. “Hey,” he said.

His mom jumped. “Oh! Elian. You hungry? There's dal left. I can heat it up.”

“I'm not hungry, Ma,” Elian said. “I just... wanted to sit.”

“Oh.” She looked confused. Elian usually grabbed food and sprinted back to his cave. “Okay. Well. I'll just... finish this.”

Elian walked into the living room. He sat on the sofa. Not the armchair (Dad’s territory). The sofa. He sat there for two minutes. The news anchor shouted about GDP. His dad stared at the screen.

“Say something,” Lyra whispered in Elian's ear. “Ask him about his day. Humans love talking about their suffering.”

Elian cleared his throat. “How was the shop?”

His dad didn't turn his head. He just grunted. “Fine. Busy. People want discounts they don't deserve.”

End of conversation. Usually, Elian would retreat. He would take the hint. But Lyra poked him in the ribs with a freezing finger. “Push.”

“I was thinking,” Elian said, his voice shaking slightly. “About my room.”

His dad finally looked away from the TV. He frowned. “What about it?”

“It's white,” Elian said. “It's really... bright. I want to paint it. Grey.”

“Paint it?” His dad scoffed. He turned back to the TV. “Focus on your exams, Elian. Your finals are in a month. Paint your room when you get a job.”

“I have a job,” Elian said. “I did the mascot thing. I have money for the paint.”

“That wasn't a job, that was a circus act,” his dad muttered. “Don't waste time on nonsense. Grey paint isn't going to get you a placement.”

It stung. It was the same old song. Be practical. Be invisible. Be successful.

“It's not nonsense,” Elian said. He didn't shout. He just said it firm.

His dad paused. He looked at Elian again, fully this time. He looked surprised that the furniture was talking back. “What?”

“I said it's not nonsense,” Elian said, his heart hammering against his ribs. “I live in that room. I stare at those walls every day. I just... I want to change it. I want it to be mine.”

“You live under my roof,” his dad said, his voice rising. “It is mine.”

“Ashok,” his mom’s voice came from the kitchen doorway. She was wiping her hands on a towel, looking nervous. “Let the boy speak.”

“He speaks plenty,” his dad grumbled, but he shifted uncomfortably. “He wants to paint. Next, he'll want a motorcycle. Then he'll fail his exams.”

“I won't fail,” Elian said. “I just want to do something... for me. Before...” He stopped. He almost said before I die. “Before the exams start,” he finished weakly.

His dad stared at him. The silence stretched. The TV blared in the background. For a second, Elian thought his dad might yell. Or laugh. Or tell him to grow up.

Instead, his dad just sighed. A long, tired sigh. “Do what you want,” his dad muttered, turning back to the news. “But don't come crying to me when the fumes give you a headache. And don't expect me to help.”

It wasn't a yes. It was a I give up. It felt like a defeat.

Elian stood up. “Okay,” Elian said softly. “Thanks.”

He walked back upstairs. He felt heavy. He hadn't “fixed” anything. He had just annoyed them.

Lyra followed him into his room. Elian sat on the bed, staring at the floor. “That went terrible,” Elian said.

“It went honest,” Lyra said, sitting on the desk. “You stood your ground. That counts.”

“He thinks I'm wasting my time,” Elian said. “He thinks I'm a disappointment.”

“He thinks you're you,” Lyra corrected. “He's just grumpy because he forgot how to be anything else. Give it time.”

The Next Morning

Elian woke up late. It was Sunday. The house was quiet again. He walked downstairs, dreading the kitchen run-in.

He walked into the living room. The TV was off. His dad wasn't in his chair.

But in the middle of the living room floor, there was a plastic bag. Elian walked over to it. Inside were two heavy cans of paint. “Storm Cloud Grey.” And a new roller brush. And a roll of masking tape.

There was no note. No “I love you, son.” No apology for being harsh the night before. Just the receipt, stuck to the can. Purchased: 8:00 AM.

His dad had gone out on a Sunday morning, before the shop opened, to get the specific color Elian wanted.

Elian stared at the cans. His throat felt tight. His mom walked in, holding a cup of tea. She saw Elian looking at the paint. She smiled. A small, knowing smile.

“He says the white walls get dirty too fast,” she lied effortlessly. “He says grey hides the dust better.”

Elian smiled back. “Yeah. Dust.”

“He's in the garage,” his mom said. “If you need... help moving the furniture.”

Elian walked to the garage door. He opened it. His dad was fiddling with the car engine. Elian stood there for a second.

“Dad?”

His dad didn't look up. “Found the paint?”

“Yeah,” Elian said. “It's the right color.”

“It was on sale,” his dad grunted. “Don't read into it.”

“I won't,” Elian said.

He paused. “Do you... want to help me tape the edges? I'm bad at straight lines.”

His dad stopped working on the car. He wiped his greasy hands on a rag. He took a long time doing it. He looked at the car. Then he looked at Elian.

“I have ten minutes,” his dad said gruffly. “Before the cricket match starts.”

“Ten minutes is good,” Elian said.

His dad walked past him into the house. He didn't smile. He didn't hug him. But as he walked by, he patted Elian’s shoulder. Once. A heavy, awkward thud.

Elian looked up. Lyra was sitting on the roof of the car, swinging her legs. “Well,” she grinned. “Item #7. Check.”

Elian watched his dad walk into the house to help paint a room for a son he didn't know he was losing. “Check,” Elian whispered.