Kavita waits for her mother to acknowledge what she has said, waits for her mother to see her standing there, desperate to be seen. But today isn’t the day her family comes back together after being blown apart. Today, they remain the pieces of what once was whole.

Without another word, Kavita carries the Gloom upstairs, its weight upon her shoulders like a cloak of stone.

After showering and changing into a pair of black jeans and a soft green sweater, she lets her hair air-dry as she sits on her bed and dials Chi.

“Chi’s cell, here!” chimes the voicemail message after three rings. “I can’t take your call right now, probably because I’m busy saving lives. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you stat!”

She hangs up the phone. She has left half a dozen messages for Chi already and leaving another feels too needy. Is she that busy? she wonders. Or is Chi avoiding her? An itchy paranoia makes Kavita want to redial Chi’s number, but she supresses the impulse. The paranoia, however, remains. She considers creeping Chi’s social media accounts to see what she’s really been up to, but a second later feels ridiculous and juvenile, and blames her bout of insecurity on a lack of sleep. Sternly, Kavita orders herself to stop being ridiculous. Then she tosses her damp towel over her bedpost to dry, and starts combing her fingers through her hair, catching herself on a net of loose strands.

Beyond her bedroom walls, she hears her father’s bedroom door whine open, followed by the creak of the floorboards as he thumps down the hall. She is grateful that he’s at least moving around a little. Maybe she will have better luck convincing him to join her for a stroll around the block.

The clamour of cupboard doors slamming startles her, jerking her head in the direction of the living room. She rushes towards the clatter and finds her father sitting cross-legged in front of the walnut wall unit with family albums scattered around him on the carpet. “Dad?” she asks. “What are you doing?”

He seems too absorbed to hear her.

“Dad?”

“Pictures,” he says. He is flipping through an old album she hasn’t seen in years, made of shockingly-bright orange patent leather. “I’m looking for pictures.”

“Which ones?” She kneels beside him. “Maybe I can help.”

“All of them,” he says as he turns another page. He scans the plastic sleeve with a pulsating sort of mania in his eyes. “I want to make an album of all his pictures from when he was a baby until….” He pauses. “I’m going back to the beginning. Back when everything was fine. Back when he was small and carefree. Mera sunder beta.” He caresses a grainy photo with his fingertips. “My sweet boy.”