The morning after the massacre smelled of ash and iron.
Not the comforting scent of a hearth, but the bitter stench of blood drying on cold floors. The sun rose, yet it did not bring light. It only revealed the ruins of what once was a family.

Vijay sat still on the threshold of his shattered home. His small hands were streaked with red, his eyes swollen from a night without sleep. Around him, neighbors had gathered—faces pale, whispers sharp as knives.