u/Paldavin

I spent a whole night searching an endless market for my missing parents. I didn't realize what they were selling until two kids found me.

It was a street where they sold only one thing: portraits of the dead.

I arrived around mid-afternoon, drenched in sweat, breathing hard, my heart hammering against my ribs. I’d never been to this part of town before, and my wide-eyed, bewildered expression gave me away immediately. The shopkeepers along the narrow alley didn’t even look surprised. They were used to seeing lost, desperate faces like mine every single day.

One of the vendors stepped forward, his voice dripping with an eerie, paternal warmth.

"What is your name, son?"

"Divakaran," I managed to choke out.

"And what brings Divakaran to our corner of the world?"

"I'm looking for portraits," I said, wiping a sleeve across my brow. "I’ve searched everywhere else. I have nowhere left to turn to find pictures of my father and mother. Someone told me... they said I might finally find them here."

By the time I finished speaking, I was on the verge of collapsing. Fresh beads of sweat broke out across my forehead.

The vendor smiled, but his eyes remained hollow—a flat, unreadable look peculiar to men who trade in things they don't care about. "Your information is correct," he said smoothly. "We can certainly help you."

Relief washed over me like a wave. "Really? You can actually help me?"

A few nearby shopkeepers exchanged glances. A quiet, collective ripple of laughter passed between them.

"Our rule here is simple," one of them said softly. "Half for us, half for you. You are free to inspect any portrait on this street. Having that kind of freedom should be enough to satisfy you for now, shouldn't it?"

I looked up and down the alleyway. Thousands—no, countless—portraits hung outside the shops on both sides of the street. The sheer volume was terrifying.

I stepped into the first shop and began my search. Infinite faces. Infinite pairs of eyes staring back into mine. So many of them looked strangely familiar. Every time I stood before a frame, a cold shudder ran down my spine: Is this my father? Is this my mother?

But no matter how long I looked, none of them were quite right.

Exhausted, I stepped out of the first building and asked the shopkeeper standing near the doorway, "What’s hanging in one shop... it wouldn't be in another one down the road, right?"

The vendor gave me a grotesque, twisted smile. "There are no guarantees here. We collect every picture we can lay our hands on. Sometimes, the exact same portrait can be found in every single shop on the street."

Panicking, I rushed into the second shop. After another fruitless search, I stumbled back out into the alley, crushed.

Another merchant called out to me, "Wouldn't just any set of pictures do? Is it really worth being so stubborn about finding those specific ones today? You’re just wasting your time, friend."

"I am looking for my loved ones," I snapped, irritation masking my growing fear. "I don't need pictures of strangers."

A third shopkeeper chimed in from the shadows: "If you actually saw the pictures of your loved ones... how could you ever be so sure you'd recognize them?"

"I just know I would—" I muttered defensively. But inside, his question cut straight to my core.

How could I be sure? How could I say with absolute certainty that none of those thousands of faces belonged to my father?

By late afternoon, I had sifted through tens of thousands of portraits. My brain was melting. The faces were blurring together until every single portrait started to look identical.

Dusk fell. I walked out of the sixteenth shop empty-handed, my legs trembling from exhaustion. I stopped a stranger walking down the street. "How many shops are in this alley?"

"No idea," the man replied without stopping. "Nobody has ever counted them. Thousands, probably."

My stomach dropped. How many more millions of dead eyes would I have to look into before I found what I was looking for?

Still, I refused to give up. As night settled over the city, lanterns and lamps began to flicker alive along the street. The shopkeepers were obsessively arranging their lights, trying to illuminate their displays with elaborate brilliance. But after passing two or three more shops, I saw through the illusion. It was a trick of the trade. The light, though bright, cast a heavy, uniform solitude over every frame. In that artificial glow, every face looked utterly alone.

The night grew pitch black, but I pressed on. I swore to myself I wouldn’t be fooled by the lighting. I had to find them.

Then, a new terror settled in: amidst this endless ocean of painted faces, I realized I was slowly starting to forget what my parents actually looked like.

Desperate to end the nightmare, I pulled down a portrait of an old man in one of the shops and yelled, "Look! This is my father!"

It was a lie, and I knew it. The sheer act of faking it shattered whatever was left of my spirit.

It was midnight now. I couldn't move my feet anymore.

"Don't you people ever close?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe of yet another shop.

"No," the shopkeeper said plainly. "For us, day and night make no difference."

His words drained the last drop of hope from me. All I wanted was a moment to rest. My eyelids felt like lead. Every time I forced them open to look at a new picture, my eyes flooded with tears, blurring my vision completely.

The merchant walked over and clapped a hand on my shoulder. "You look completely done for. Rest a bit. You can keep searching after dawn."

"I'm not tired," I lied, forcing a fake burst of energy into my voice. "Let me keep looking for my family."

I dragged myself deeper into the dimly lit room. Facing wall after wall of endless, towering portraits, I froze. My head was spinning violently.

I am never going to find them, I whispered to myself in the dark. Even if I look right at them, I won't recognize them. How could anyone find a soul in an ocean like this...?

That was when I heard the sound of tiny footsteps entering the shop.

Two young boys—maybe six and seven years old—walked in. The sudden noise terrified me. Shrinking back, I backed into a dark corner and pressed my spine against the wall, hoping to stay invisible until they finished and left.

Through the front window of the shop, I noticed the dark sky outside turning pale. Dawn was breaking over the street.

The two little boys walked slowly through the rows, scanning the frames. Step by step, they walked right up to the corner where I was standing.

They stopped.

They looked straight at me.

Their small eyes locked onto my wide, unblinking face, completely frozen against the wall. I watched in sheer horror as I realized their search had just come to an end—right in front of me.

Tears filled the children's eyes and spilled over their cheeks. They began to cry, silently, hopelessly. Seeing their heartbreak tore my soul apart, but I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I was completely rooted to the spot.

After weeping in silence for what felt like an eternity, the children turned toward the back room and called out to the shopkeeper.

"Here..." one of them sobbed, pointing a tiny, trembling finger directly at me. "This is the picture we've been looking for."

The shopkeeper walked over without a word. He reached out, grabbed me, and began neatly rolling me up into a large sheet of packing paper.

Because, after all... it was a street where only portraits of the dead were sold.

***

**Credits & Note:**

* **Original Story:** *Avakashangalude Prashnam*

**Author :**P. Padmarajan

From Malayam to English, rewritten in first perspective

I'm a person who prefers the clarity of sound to be the the most important features, i don't listen to bass intensive songs i listen to indie songs and I'm a beigginer so help me out, at this price range can I get device that is close the airpods in terms of sound