The sun had gone a little way beyond the horizon and the chill wind shook the brittle leaves off the trees when I started from home. Every Friday morning, my journey to the library was filled with the chirps of young birds, horns from cars and buses and the innocent laughter of children, but today was different. As I looked past the deserted street, memories came rushing back. That solitude was depressing. Something inside me told that the day was up to no good.

The melodious ringing of chimes scattered my thoughts away, as I entered my favorite spot in the whole city. I greeted the librarian with a warm smile, picked up a few books and sat down on my usual chair. After a few minutes of reading, I looked up to see a child struggling to reach the fourth ledge.

I went near her and asked if I could be of any help. She requested me to place her book in the correct place. I located an empty space perfect enough for the book to fit. Accidentally, I pushed the book in quite hard and the book on the opposite side of the same ledge fell down with a thud. The child muttered a word of thanks and trotted away.

I made my way to the next aisle and found a thick dusty book lying on the floor. I picked it up and shook the dust away, it read, ‘Child Adoptions from 2004’. There was something mysterious about that book; I retired to my place and had a look at the first page.

The page showed a picture of a young boy with his parents. It was written that both his parents had committed suicide due to loan issues. He was adopted by a Swedish woman and is currently doing his schooling in Sweden. As the pages flipped by I came to know about the deaths, agony and afflictions of other people’s lives.

My fingers turned the eighty fourth page and my blood froze. There, stood my childhood picture under the year 2007. The baby girl was carried by a lady with a charming face and a kind-looking man was beside her. I began to read the following incident with increasing anxiety.

‘The Johnson family was out enjoying a short family trip in their new car on the night of 11th February 2007, with their baby girl. Suddenly, they met with a crash, the car caught fire and the parents were burnt alive. However, the child was protected by her thick blanket and survived. She had a few burns on her left hand and was taken to the nearby hospital by the people in the neighborhood. She was treated and sent to an orphanage. The very next day, she was adopted by an English family who is living in London.’

I stared at my left hand and saw the scars of my tragedy. Tears came before I could stop them, but I let them fall. I was seeing the faces of my real parents for the first time.

Sorrow inexplicable, and for a fraction of a second, I wished that I was sleeping with them in the graveyard.