Always my brother.

The house was quiet that evening, except for the sound of rain tapping against the windows. Arman sat on the edge of his bed, staring at an old, worn-out cricket bat resting on his lap. It had been years since he touched it, but tonight he couldn’t help but remember.

He thought of Asif — his older brother.

Asif had always been the stronger one. Taller, faster, smarter — the kind of brother everyone looked up to. He taught Arman everything: how to ride a bike, how to swim, even how to talk to their strict father when things got tough. But what Arman admired most was how Asif always protected him.

They grew up in a small village where every penny mattered. Their father worked long hours in the fields while their mother managed the home. The brothers shared one room, one cupboard, even one pair of decent shoes they took turns wearing to school. But they never complained — as long as they had each other.

Arman still remembered his first cricket tournament in school. He had begged his parents to buy him a bat. Their father shook his head. “We don’t have money for toys,” he said firmly.

That night, Arman cried quietly, thinking he’d have to borrow someone else’s bat. But the next morning, when he woke up, there it was — a beautiful wooden bat, sitting by his bed.

Asif stood in the doorway, pretending not to notice his little brother’s wide eyes.

“Play well,” was all he said before leaving for school.

Arman later found out that Asif had sold his own watch — the only gift he had ever gotten from their uncle — just to buy that bat.

That was Asif. Always giving, always sacrificing, without saying a word.

But life has a cruel way of testing even the strongest bonds.

As they grew older, responsibilities grew heavier. Asif dropped out of school to help their father in the fields, while Arman continued his studies. He tried to convince Asif to stay in school, but Asif just smiled and said, “One of us needs to finish. You’ll make something of yourself. I’ll handle things here.”

Arman did finish. He graduated, got a job in the city, and moved away. Visits home became less frequent as work consumed his life. Phone calls turned shorter. Sometimes he even forgot to answer them.

And yet, whenever he did visit, Asif was always waiting at the gate, grinning as if nothing had changed.

But something had.

The last time Arman came home, Asif looked tired. His strong frame had grown thinner, and there were lines on his face that hadn’t been there before. Arman asked him about it, but Asif just brushed it off. “Just tired, little brother. Don’t worry about me.”

Then, one rainy night — much like this one — Arman got the call.

Asif had collapsed in the field.

He rushed home, but it was too late. The doctor said it was his heart — years of overwork and no care for himself had finally caught up with him.

And now, here Arman sat, clutching that same old cricket bat, crying for the brother who had always put him first.

He walked outside into the rain, to the small field where they used to play cricket as kids. The grass was wet and the air was heavy, but he didn’t care. He swung the bat once, twice, imagining Asif cheering him on from the sidelines.

“I miss you,” he whispered into the night.

The rain fell harder, but for the first time in years, Arman felt a strange kind of peace. He realized that even though Asif was gone, his love was still here — in every memory, every sacrifice, every quiet moment they had shared.

And he promised himself he would honor that love, by living the kind of life Asif had dreamed for him.

As he walked back inside, soaked but smiling through his tears, he looked up at the sky and said softly:

“You’ll always be my brother. Always.”