Scars are not always seen. Some are carved deep into the soul, where no one looks.

---

The rain slammed against the cracked windows like angry fists demanding to be heard. Thunder growled in the distance, but inside that small house, a different storm was raging. The smell of alcohol clung to the air like poison. Broken glass glittered on the floor. The cries were muffled, but they lived in his ears like ghosts.

Ten-year-old Devansh Oberoi sat huddled under the table, arms wrapped around his trembling legs, lips pressed together to stop the scream from escaping his throat. He could hear the shouting, the slaps, the begging. His mother’s voice—a soft, trembling plea—rose like a final prayer.

“Please… don’t hit him… he’s just a child…”

Another slap. Another crash. His father's voice boomed, thick with rage and whiskey.

“He’s a disgrace! Just like you!”

Devansh shut his eyes tightly. He wanted to run to her. He wanted to scream. He wanted to stop him. But he couldn’t. He was too small. Too weak. Too afraid.

His older brother, Rudra, stood silently in the corner, arms crossed, eyes cold. He never spoke. He never stopped it. Devansh had once believed Rudra would protect them. But he had learned the truth. Rudra had chosen survival—by standing beside the monster.

That morning had been normal. Or, at least, as normal as any day in this hell could be. Devansh had asked his mother for a toy train he saw in the market. She had smiled, her tired eyes lighting up just a little, and handed it to him that afternoon—secretly, without telling her husband. A small joy. A forbidden act of love.

But Rudra had seen it. And he told.

Devansh didn’t blame him. Not then. He just… didn’t know.

He remembered the moment clearly. His father’s footsteps echoing down the hallway. The door slamming open. The rage in his eyes when he held the little toy train in his calloused hand.

“Where did you get this?!”

“I… Ma gave it…” he whispered.

That was all it took.

The beating started. His back, his arms, his legs—his small body flailed like a ragdoll under the blows. His mother tried to stop him, wrapping her arms around her child, begging. Screaming. Pleading.

Until one blow—meant for Devansh—landed on her head.

She collapsed, blood spreading across the floor like spilled ink.

Devansh froze.

His mother wasn’t moving.

His father didn’t stop.

And Devansh’s voice—his scream—finally came out. But it was too late.

---

The next six years were a blur of pain.

His mother was gone. Buried without dignity. Her death blamed on an accident. His father never spoke of her again. Rudra went on with life like nothing happened, earning his father’s favor, never lifting a hand against Devansh but never offering help either.

Devansh became the house ghost. Beaten with belts, locked in dark rooms for days, fed scraps like a stray dog. Once, he was burned with a hot iron rod for coming home late from school. Another time, his father hit him with a rod so hard his back bled for weeks. But Devansh didn’t cry anymore. He just stared at the ceiling and counted the days.

He kept one thing with him—his mother’s old handkerchief, now stained and torn, folded carefully in a rusted tin box. He would press it to his heart when the pain became too much to bear. He didn’t cry. He wouldn’t give his father that satisfaction.

At sixteen, he left.

One night, when the world was asleep, he packed whatever he had: his mother's photo, the handkerchief, some old money he found hidden under floorboards. No goodbyes. No hesitation.

He ran.

---

Mumbai was cruel. But not as cruel as home.

He slept on footpaths, starved for days, took beatings for standing in the wrong place. But he never stopped. He got a waiter’s job in a night club—cleaning tables, washing dishes, scrubbing floors. His body still ached, his nightmares still screamed, but there was something new in his eyes now—determination.

He joined college with the little money he saved. Studied during the day, worked at night. No friends. No distractions. Only one goal—to build a life she would’ve been proud of.

Then one night, a girl stumbled into the club.

She was bleeding. Crying. A group of drunk boys chasing her. Devansh didn’t think—he just moved.

He stepped in.

Fists flew. Blood spilled.

The boys ran.

The girl trembled in a corner, terrified, her dress torn, her wrist bleeding. He knelt beside her, silently handed her his mother’s handkerchief. She wrapped it around her wrist. Looked at him with grateful, tear-filled eyes.

She didn’t ask his name. He didn’t ask hers.

And just like that—she was gone.

But that moment stayed with him. The way she looked at him like he was her saviour. Like he mattered. He didn’t even realize then… he had saved more than just her.

He had saved a piece of himself too.

---

Years passed. And the boy who once bled on cold floors became a man the world feared and admired. Devansh Oberoi, founder of DO Engineering Enterprises, was now a name whispered in powerful rooms. Sharp suits. Cold eyes. No nonsense. No weakness.

But every night… he opened the bottom drawer of his closet, took out a soft, faded dupatta—the one his mother wore every evening. It still carried the faintest trace of her—rose-scented oil and sandalwood. He wrapped it around his fingers, held it against his face, and let himself breathe. Just for a minute.

That dupatta was all he had left of her now. No photos. No letters. Just this—torn at the edges, but still whole. Like him.

And every morning… he reminded himself—

"Love is a luxury I can't afford."

Until she walked in.

The

same eyes. The same voice. The same smile.

She didn’t recognize him.

But he remembered everything.