For over three decades, a family lived with an ache that never healed. Their son, who vanished in the 1990s after saying he’d “go to the city to start a career,” had disappeared without a trace. His parents searched endlessly—posting notices, visiting police stations, and lighting incense each night, praying their boy would someday return.
Thirty years later, their wish came true—but not in the way they imagined.
One afternoon, a luxury car stopped in front of their humble gate. A well-dressed man stepped out—it was him. His mother collapsed in tears, his father trembled with disbelief. Joy swept through the home—until he spoke.
Placing three red land books on the table, he said coldly:
“These aren’t gifts. These are the lands my parents sold to find me. I’ve paid for them. I’m here to reclaim what’s mine.”
The room fell silent. The reunion they had prayed for turned into heartbreak. The boy they’d mourned wasn’t lost anymore—but the man who returned was a stranger.
Sometimes, time doesn’t heal—it hardens.
