Chapter 1:Boy in the Family Photo
The house smelled like fresh cardamoms and hot tea, exactly as it did every Friday evening.
Rian set his school backpack down on the kitchen chair, the heavy canvas slapping against the wood. He pulled out his notebook, filled with scattered lines of code from the web scraper he had been running on an open-source archive server for his history class project. It was a simple script, meant to pull publicly available news files from thirty years ago. Nothing special. Nothing that should have made his laptop fan hum like a jet engine all night.
"Mom," Rian called out, rubbing his eyes. "Did you move my charger from the desk?"
His mother turned from the stove, a wooden spoon in her hand. Her eyes met his, but there was no immediate warmth, no familiar micro-sigh she usually gave when he asked where he’d misplaced his things again.
Instead, her gaze held a blank, polite curiosity.
"I’m sorry?" she said, her voice mild. "Are you looking for someone?"
Rian let out a short, breathy laugh. "Mom, come on. The laptop charger. I left it on the dining table."
She set the spoon down slowly, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked at him the way one looks at a lost delivery boy who had walked into the wrong house. "Excuse me... did someone leave the front gate unlocked? Are you a friend from next door?"
The chuckle caught in Rian's throat. "Mom, stop. It’s not funny."
She didn't smile. Her forehead creased with genuine, growing concern. "I think you have the wrong house, son. Who brought you here?"
A cold prickle started at the base of Rian's neck. He stepped past her into the living room, his heart knocking hard against his ribs. It’s a joke, he told himself. Devin must have convinced her to play along. It’s a prank.
He walked straight to the mantelpiece above the fireplace, where a large wooden frame held their last family portrait from two summers ago.
Rian pointed a shaking finger at the glass. "Look right here. That’s me. Standing right next to—"
He stopped. His breath hitched in his throat.
In the photograph, his mother and father stood close together in front of the lake, laughing, his father’s arm pulled tight around her waist. The composition was perfect. There was no gap, no awkward empty space, no trace of a boy in a bright yellow jacket. It was as if the camera had only ever seen two people.
"See?" his mother’s voice came from right behind him, gentle and entirely calm. "It’s just my husband and me. We don't have a son."
Rian stared at the photograph. The glass was clean. The paper inside was crisp. But he was gone.
"I... I have to call Devin," Rian muttered, his voice barely a whisper. He yanked his phone from his pocket, his thumb flying across the screen.
He tapped Devin’s contact and pressed the speaker button. It rang three times before his best friend answered over a chorus of background chatter.
"Yeah? Hello?" Devin said.
"Devin! Thank God," Rian said, running a hand through his hair, his palm clammy with sweat. "Listen to me, my mom is acting totally crazy. Devin, you spilled your cold coffee on my rug yesterday! Stop playing around! What is going on?"
There was a brief pause on the line. The sound of a basketball bouncing in the background.
"Uh... who is this?" Devin asked.
Rian’s chest tightened as if squeezed by an iron band. "Devin, cut the crap. It’s Rian."
"Rian?" Devin repeated the name slowly, as if trying out an unfamiliar word in a foreign language. "Is this a wrong number? Look, man, I'm at the court right now. If this is a school project survey or something—"
"Devin! It's me!" Rian shouted into the mic, his voice cracking.
"Listen, buddy, I don't know how you got my number, but I don't know any Rian," Devin said, his tone turning cautious, slightly annoyed. "I gotta go."
The line went dead.
Rian stood frozen in the middle of the living room. The hum of the refrigerator felt deafening. The ticking of the wall clock sounded like a slow countdown.
The front door clicked open. Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway as his father walked in, tossing his keys into the ceramic bowl by the entryway.
"Anita? Is dinner ready?" his father called out, stepping into the archway. He froze when he saw Rian standing by the mantelpiece.
"Ramesh," his mother said quickly, stepping between them with polite concern. "This boy was standing in the living room. I think he got the wrong address."
His father looked directly at Rian. He didn't look angry or surprised—just offered the guarded, cautious expression reserved for complete strangers standing uninvited in a private home.
His father looked at him for a long moment.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I think you have the wrong family.”
