After hundreds of years of colonial rule, Indians and the Quit India Movement took back their land and forced the British out. However, tensions between many different groups of Indians grew. The main leaders of the Hindus, Jawaharlal Nehru and Mahatma Gandhi, were opposed to separating the country. However, the main leader of the Muslims, Muhammad Ali Jinnah, was in support of it because he felt that the minority Muslims wouldn’t be well treated in a Hindu dominated India. Ultimately, the land was partitioned in two, with Muslim areas being designated to Pakistan and most Hindu areas remaining in New India. As a result, this displaced fourteen million people. Violence was incited on both sides, leading up to two million lost lives.

I, a Hindu, had been living with my mother and my two younger brothers at the home of my paternal uncle, my Thouji. Our family home had been in a less safe area, so my father sent us to our Thouji who lived on a wealthier main road. Before the partition, we lived in India, as did everyone else. But, after the line had been drawn creating two territories, we suddenly found ourselves in the newly formed Pakistan. We stayed in a suburb of Lahore, in my Thouji’s brownstone home outfitted with its crystal clear glass windows and stone archways. There, we took shelter from the rioting in the streets, filled with flashing orange flames and stampedes of angry men on horseback. One morning, when the air was dry and the sunlight violently flooded into the courtyard, we heard a scream from the rubble covered streets. My mother shifted the curtain to peer out, to see the rioters crammed up outside our uncle’s wrought iron gates, with rolled out signs protesting our existence. My mother panicked, shaking as she watched the sharp rocks flying towards the house. My uncle urged us to travel to New India immediately to escape the escalating situation. No one knew how long we would be gone or if we would come back, but we knew we had to seek refuge.

That day, I remained caged inside our house. I was paralyzed. Too terrified to stay. Too terrified to leave. We have done nothing to them, I weeped as I watched my mother pack up a small burlap sack of our belongings; she placed in a few wads of dusty green cash and a picture of my father that she pressed against her dry lips. She looked at me with her wide eyes and reassured me that everything would return to normal.

I gingerly opened the creaky wooden door, careful to first peek through the gap to confirm that the chaos in the streets had receded. Amidst the shouting voices, the heat, the crashes and bangs of the gunfire, I saw my Thouji on the steps, negotiating with two younger men. I stepped next to him, feeling the scorching heat on my feet. He was arranging for us to join a caravan—a large group of people travelling together. We were car-less, the rioters setting our car up in flames one tumultuous night. This was our only option.

At night, I laid awake trembling. I felt the cool breeze send a chill through my body. My mind swirled with anxiety as I glanced out my window to the only land I had ever known. I scanned the garden, illuminated only by dim lamps, abundant with lush green grass and delicate pops of flowers, comfortingly tranquil. I listened to the ticking of the large brass clock in the living room, dreading the moment that it would strike four.

Once the streets were tinged with hints of a rose and violet sunrise, we set out, bags on our backs. With no words to my father who remained in our family home, I wondered how he would ever find us, and if our family could ever be whole again. As we snuck out to the street, our eyes anxiously darted around looking for the rioters, who we had hoped would not be out this early in the morning. We made our way to the caravan, to the group of men and women dressed in tattered clothing and fanning their sweaty foreheads. I took one last look at the only place left that was home.

Throughout the inn, a series of tensions were once again present. The first was the slight, yet unmistakable squeak of floorboards, straining under the weight of tired bodies. Despite the apparent age of the inn, the tatami still held fast—being the only building left from amongst its long-forgotten brothers. But as it is said, “the past is the past” and “the present is the present.”

But an understanding of the present is impossible without the knowledge of the past. Though the War of Imperial Succession had ended twelve years ago, and its repercussions were still felt. They were not the ruins normally found after a war of this magnitude, but those which affected the weight of a man’s purse. The village of the inn, whose name had been lost in the ebb and flow of time, was merely another victim. This destitution and yearning for days long ago created the second tension, much more subtle than the first, yet just as indicative of history.

And inevitably, the third tension was felt by a lone man, who lay asleep in said inn. A fair complexion was scattered into irrelevance by a face that had seen more than any man ten years his senior. The tension within him was between his desires. The first was the natural urge to sleep after an intensive day of wondering, searching, and finally longing. And the second, perhaps even more primal, was one imploring the man to arise from slumber. For a recurring nightmare, one that had stuck with the man for twelve long years had once again returned.

After a struggle as dramatic as the dream it concerned, the latter urge prevailed, giving rise to the man. Despite having just awoken, a drowsy feeling still lingered, as is to be expected with such kinds of dreams. The first tints of gold were present behind the sliver of quilt covering the window. Moving through the morning motions, the brother reminisced. How long, he thought, had it been since he had begun his journey ‘cross the land? How many steps had he taken? And how many more must he take to find his brother? Most considered him mad—overcome by grief—yet none dared challenge his steadfast conviction. It is, of course, common knowledge not to reason with an unreasonable man, for defeat is inevitable. But all nonetheless respected the man. For who could not remember the man who ended the brutal civil war?

Yet the ending of the war was not the most renowned aspect of it. Only hours following the brother’s return from the grove, a group was sent to claim the body of the fallen brother, as a sign of respect to his honor. To the shock of the team, the body had disappeared. And not a trace of blood could be seen. Where had it gone? The masses believed that his body was taken up to the heavens, by some god reclaiming his fallen champion. Scholars believed that his body had undergone a state of rapid decay, and the blood was simply covered by the cherry blossom petals. The remaining brother, however, believed that his brother had simply stood up and left, that he was still alive, roaming the lands.

However, his decade-long journey had yet to reveal anything. The small village with the inn had led to the same success (or lack thereof) as any other. The man knew he would not find his brother there. It was time for him to move on, to the adjacent village, where he hoped, ever more steadfastly, his brother would be waiting. As for the village itself, it was not common for the heroes of yore to pass by, for any reason, even those seen in fairy tales. The village elders were ecstatic—telling him of a celebration for the man’s passing. Had he been younger, the man would’ve shared their enthusiasm. Yet then again, he would have never willingly passed through a village of the commoners. It was not out of condescension—he and his brother simply had no interest in commoners’ affairs.

Nonetheless, a celebration dedicated to him obligated the man to attend. The inn itself was fittingly empty, but outside there was little to be heard. The leaves themselves rustled less loudly than the day before, and the ever-singing sparrow that had nested just outside the inn was strangely absent from his nest. Wandering the streets, the houses were similarly quiet. The man had incredible difficulty in determining a plausible explanation for the village’s vacancy. For why, on a day of celebration, would the people not be at their liveliest?

But the man knew that the village was not large, and he would inevitably locate the missing villagers—provided ample time. In the few days he had stayed at the village, looking for his brother, the elders of the village had coerced the man into ambling through the village countless times. The pattern of buildings was simple to recall: first the apothecary, then the logically following infirmary flanked by a residential area, with an open area for children to play…

And thus the man meandered through the village, observing the stillness of the area. However, it was not the type of stillness which could be observed in the pleasantries of nature. It was one similar to that feeling of being followed: a nervous, uneasy feeling. It was only accentuated by the sight of the villagers—all of them, from the elders to the mothers and their newborn babes—kneeling, heads bent in solemn prayer. The man knew better than to interrupt. Even a fool would not dare to disturb a sacred orison. Yet walking amongst these people, the villagers’ heads turned, suddenly breaking out of prayer, murmuring to one another. Only as he reached the front of the group did he realize why they were praying. But in this moment of realization, a small boy, no more than eight, broke the silence, a voice not melancholy in the slightest, only afraid:

“Did you kill grandfather?”

For the man knew: he was at the house of elders, and the oldest and wisest among them had been murdered.

The eight girls arrived after school. He watched them come in from his window, cleaning his glasses. They seemed to need so much cleaning these days. Or perhaps his eyes were simply getting worse.

Perhaps the day that Trixie and Billy—or Will, as he preferred—so impatiently waited for was coming upon them soon enough. His joints had been aching for so many years now—his seventies were not kind to him.

The girls were all about nine years old, give or take a few years. Some of them were orphans, others sent by parents who could not afford to care for them. They attended the local Catholic school, and lived with a few caretakers. Good women, those who cared for these girls. When Elliot had first approached them, they had rebuffed him.

Now, however, the caretakers were pleased to leave the girls at the manor for hours on end, though they still hesitated to do so overnight. The housekeeper was gone, off to her night classes. She was studying psychology, he thought. What would she have to say about him?

What did psychologists think about the word eccentric?

Natalie and Genevieve were sitting on one of the sofas, arguing. They were always arguing, but Elliot had caught Genevieve comforting Natalie one day after her baba died. Anne, Jane, and Clare—Elliot’s monosyllabic girls, he called them—were playing some form of hand game. Elise had her nose buried in a book—not one of his, thankfully—and Rosalie was patiently watching Tessa play the piano.

Trixie had insisted Elliot buy that piano because she wanted her two sons to learn to play. Neither of them had learned, of course, or even visited, but once Elliot had discovered Tessa’s affinity for music, he was glad it was there. She was teaching Rosalie to play—or trying to, for the younger girl lacked both ability and talent.

The moment he entered, all eight girls leapt to their feet.

“Uncle Elliot!” cried Rosie, lunging at him. He could no longer pick her up, but he wrapped his arms around her all the same, ignoring the pain in his back. She was the youngest, barely seven.

“Uncle Elliot, tell Evie that I’m better at soccer than she is.”

“Uncle Elliot, tell Nattie that I’m better at soccer! I’m faster!” Genevieve and Natalie got to their feet, both looking at him expectantly.

Elliot widened his eyes and looked to Elise. “What do I say?” he stage-whispered.

Elise cleared her throat importantly. “The truth,” she quoted from her book. “It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution.”

“That doesn’t mean anything! Evie’s faster, but Nattie kicks harder.” Anne nodded, content with that answer.

Elliot settled himself into an armchair, watching his girls. Clare approached him shyly. “Look, Uncle Elliot,” she said, showing him a bruise on her knee. “Tessa pushed me into the pole today.”

Tessa wrinkled her nose. “It was an accident,” she insisted. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Elliot made a sympathetic face. “You know, I think this calls for ice cream.”

After the initial excitement, Eve stomped her foot. “We don’t have any more mint!”

“Mint is gross,” Nattie complained, and the two were at it again.

Elliot had to agree with her, but he didn’t tell Genevieve that. Clare whirled around to declare her own position, so Jane quietly moved in to fill her spot. “Are you okay?” she whispered like it was a secret.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he said. The lawyer’s papers had gone through. Elliot had never felt better, arthritis and all.

The following Saturday, it stormed, thunder shaking the old house with every boom. As Elliot lay awake in bed, he worried for the girls, living in that cold and empty orphanage.

He also thought of Bea, at his beach house, freezing, and well darn if it didn’t make him smile a little bit.

His lawyer was a small woman with large glasses that she kept pushing up her nose. Her name was Jeanette Wallace, an old-money name. Every time Elliot had seen her, she’d worn the same grey pantsuit, the same haircut, the same leather shoes. She looked as if she had never spent more money than absolutely necessary on anything, but given her clientele, Elliot assumed she had money to spare.

Jeanette was likely in her fifties, her mousy brown hair streaked with grey. She was not a friendly person, which Elliot didn’t mind. He did mind that he couldn’t get a read on her. He was an author. He loved analyzing characters, and this spilled from his work into his daily life. People seemed to like it, being made a character in his books. He wasn’t sure why. His characters were never good people. Maybe Jeanette was right to hold him at arm’s length. Or maybe she did that to all people. Maybe it was just business.

Jeanette was very down to business. “I don’t often make house calls,” she said, “but I do make exceptions.”

That’s a very good line, Elliot thought. He wondered if she had practiced it. “It is simply because, Dr. Lexington, I find your case unusual.”

“Eccentric, perhaps.”

“You could certainly say that. The thing most confusing about your case is how you want to create trust funds for children that are not yours.”

“Please correct me if I’m mistaken, but that has never been an issue before. I’ve set up funds for my niece, nephew, and their children.”

Jeanette ground her teeth. Elliot sensed that she didn’t like being interrupted, though he hadn’t interrupted her. “This is true. However, in those cases, you had a parent and legal guardian of the children at hand. For these girls—these eight girls—you’ve met none of their parents and do not have their consent.”

Unfortunately, that was true. Some of the girls were children of the state now, but there was bureaucracy involved in that. Others had parents, but he much preferred to keep them out of it. Anne’s parents, for instance, he knew would take the money and leave the girl nothing. “I don’t want their parents involved,” he asserted.

“Believe me, I know.” Jeanette pushed her glasses up her nose, looking at documents. “Here are our options.”