The AIR frequency had changed. Barfi twisted the dial frantically—left, right, left—until the knob came off in his hand. Silence. A terrible, hollow silence.

Because now he knew: some songs don’t end. They just turn into the wind that carries the dust of your mother’s face, the warmth of a stranger’s heart, and the courage to stay, even when the music stops.

He called himself Barfi. Not because he was sweet, but because he crumbled under the slightest pressure.

That night, she didn’t scream. She listened.

Barfi never played it.