Chapter 12: Night Sounds and Silent Witnesses

Raj stood frozen in the hallway, the echo of the heavy door’s click still reverberating in his bones. His heart hammered, a dull ache pulsing in his chest, as the last words of his mother—“I don’t want to hear it”—swirled in his mind. He pressed his back against the wall, feeling the roughness of the plaster through his shirt. His hands were still clenched around the diary, the cover digging into his palms. He could still taste the metallic tang of fear and betrayal on his tongue.

He didn’t move for a long time. The house was quiet except for the low drone of the ceiling fan in the hallway and the distant, almost comforting sound of the refrigerator humming in the kitchen. Raj’s mind spun, trying to piece together what had just happened. He replayed the scene in his head, hearing his own voice crack as he tried to explain, Rony’s smug, triumphant smirk, and above all, Sri’s pain and anger.

He wanted to shout, to run down the hall and beg her to believe him, to just look at the diary, to see the truth for herself. But he knew. He knew that if he tried, she would only turn away harder. Rony had already painted him as the unstable one, the dangerous one. And the worst part was, Raj wasn’t sure he could blame her. Not really. Because Rony was so good at twisting things, at making himself the victim. Raj had seen it happen before, in small ways—how people believed the one who cried the loudest, the one who looked the most lost.

He shuffled quietly back to his room, careful not to make a sound. The hallway seemed longer tonight, every step dragging. He closed the door softly behind him and leaned against it, sliding down until he sat on the floor. The carpet was scratchy against his jeans. He hugged his knees to his chest, the diary pressed against his stomach.

His thoughts churned. He thought about the words in the diary—Sri’s own handwriting, full of doubt and confusion, her own struggle to make sense of what was happening. But now, after what had just gone down, he knew those words would do nothing. She was too far gone. Or maybe she never was close to seeing the truth at all.

He opened the diary again, flipping to the last entry. April 17th. The words seemed to stare back at him, as if accusing him of not being enough.

I feel like I’m losing control. Rony knows exactly what he’s doing. He plays the victim so well. I know this isn’t right. But I can’t say no.

Raj’s lip curled in bitter frustration. He knew exactly how Rony played it. He’d seen it before. The way Rony would suddenly look small, lost, his voice breaking just enough to make anyone want to wrap him up and protect him. He wasn’t just manipulating Sri—he was manipulating the whole situation, twisting it until no one could see the truth anymore.

A muffled sound drifted from down the hall. Raj’s head snapped up. It was the faint rustle of fabric, a soft thump from the direction of Sri’s room. His breath caught in his throat. He pressed his ear to the floor, listening harder. There it was again—the gentle shuffle of footsteps, a door creaking open and then shut. A hushed murmur, too low to make out the words.

Raj’s mind flashed back to earlier, to the sounds he’d heard through the keyhole, the ones he’d recognized for what they were but hadn’t dared to interrupt. He remembered the guilt that had settled over him like a cold fog each time he’d heard those noises at night. He’d told himself he was protecting her, that maybe she could still find her way back if he just didn’t interfere. But now, after everything that had happened today, he wasn’t sure he could keep silent anymore.

He stood up, moving on silent feet towards the door. His hand hovered over the handle. For a second, he thought about just going in, about throwing the door open and screaming until someone listened. But he knew what he’d see. He knew what he’d heard before. And he knew that if he did go in, Rony would have another weapon to use against him, another way to twist the story.

Instead, he pressed his eye to the keyhole, just a thin sliver of vision, enough to see the hallway outside Sri’s door. The light under the door was dim, just a faint spill of yellow onto the polished wood. He could make out the outline of Rony’s small, hunched figure moving around the room. He couldn’t see Sri, but he could see Rony moving closer to the bed, then pausing, almost as if waiting for something.

A moment later, the door clicked again. This time, it was Sri’s voice, low and almost trembling. “Rony, is everything alright?”

Rony’s reply was quick, soft but insistent. “I just… I just couldn’t sleep, Mom. I had a bad dream. Can I stay with you tonight?”

Raj’s jaw tightened. He could hear the way Rony’s voice quivered just so, the practiced vulnerability that made people want to reach out and hold him.

Sri’s voice came again, gentle and tired. “Of course, beta. Come in. But let’s keep the lights off, okay?”

The door swung open, and Rony slipped inside, almost gliding. Raj saw the way Rony’s eyes flicked toward the spot where the diary lay in Sri’s drawer earlier. He wondered if Rony knew about it. Maybe he did. Maybe he’d been waiting for Raj to make a mistake.

The door closed again. The house was silent except for the faint sounds from inside—the rustle of sheets, the low murmur of voices. Raj pressed his forehead against the cool wood of the door, trying to steady himself.

He told himself he was being paranoid. That maybe Rony really did have nightmares. That maybe Sri was just being a good mother, doing what she thought was right. But the truth—the truth he’d seen with his own eyes—wouldn’t leave him.

He backed away from the door, his legs heavy. He returned to his room and sat on the edge of the bed. He stared at the ceiling, watching the shadows from the fan blades dance across the white paint. Each shadow looked like a question mark.

He thought about the diary again. If he showed it to someone else… but who could he show? His father was overseas, his uncle was oblivious, and there was no one else here. No one he trusted.

A wave of exhaustion hit him. His eyes burned. He flopped back onto the bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. But sleep wouldn’t come. Instead, the night wrapped around him, thick and suffocating, and the sounds from down the hall grew louder.

At first, it was just the creak of the bed as someone shifted. Then came the soft breathing, deeper than normal, as if someone was trying to steady themselves after a long day. Raj’s mind tried to focus on something else, but it was impossible. He could hear the subtle, rhythmic sound of someone moving against the mattress, the faint rustle of cotton sheets.

And then, the unmistakable sound—muffled, but unmistakable. The soft, wet noise of a mouth finding flesh. Raj’s stomach lurched. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the image forced itself into his mind anyway. He could almost picture it, the way Rony had looked at his mother during that first hug, the way he’d lingered, the way he’d never really let go.

He told himself it was just a dream, that he was imagining it. But he knew better. He’d heard this before. He’d seen, too, through that damned keyhole, the way Rony moved with a confidence that didn’t belong to a boy who was supposed to be grieving. The way Sri’s voice would rise and fall, the way she’d call him “son” in that breathless, desperate tone.

The sounds intensified. The bed creaked again. There was the slap of skin against skin, muffled but distinct. Raj’s fingers dug into the mattress. He wanted to run down the hall, to burst in and yell, to do something—anything—to stop it. But he knew what would happen if he did. Rony would scream. Sri would panic. And they would both turn on him, as they had before.

He heard Sri’s voice, low and urgent, almost a whisper. “Slow down, son. Please, go slow.”

Rony’s voice was barely audible, a rough murmur that Raj could just make out. “I can’t help it, Mom. I need this. I need you.”

Raj pressed his fists into his eyes, trying to block it out, but the sounds were inside his head now. He could see flashes through the keyhole again—the way Rony’s back arched, the way Sri’s hands gripped the sheets, her face half-lit by the moonlight filtering through the curtains. He remembered the look on her face—part fear, part resignation, all confusion.

He wondered if she even knew anymore what was real and what wasn’t. He wondered if she ever would.

The sounds went on and on, each one longer and more desperate than the last. Raj lay there, paralyzed, the weight of everything pressing down on his chest. He told himself he was protecting her somehow, that maybe if he didn’t interfere, she’d wake up and see the truth in the morning. But deep down, he knew it was a lie. This wouldn’t end. It couldn’t end, not unless someone outside this house stepped in.

But there was no one.

The noises finally began to quiet. The bed stopped creaking. The breathing became slower, deeper, the kind that came after something intense and exhausting. Raj lay there, staring at the ceiling, his heart pounding so hard it hurt. He was exhausted, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep. Not tonight. Not after what he’d just heard.

He listened as Rony’s breathing evened out, the way it always did when he’d gotten what he wanted. Then came the soft rustle of someone shifting, pulling the covers tighter around themselves. Sri’s voice was a faint murmur now, almost too soft to hear. “Goodnight, son. I love you.”

Rony’s reply was a sleepy mumble. “I love you too, Mom.”

The lights stayed off. The room settled into a heavy, uneasy silence.

Raj lay there in the dark, the sounds of the night pressing in around him. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know if he ever would. But he knew one thing for certain: he couldn’t keep silent forever. Not after tonight.

But for now, he just lay there. Listening. Waiting. The chapter ends with Raj frozen in the dark, the sounds of Rony and Sri’s bedroom settling into the quiet hush of sleep, the truth hanging heavy and unresolved in the air.