Panjim, Goa, comes alive as the sun dips below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the Mandovi river. The narrow streets hum the rhythm of night at the characteristic laid-back tempo of the city. Tucked along a bustling lane near the riverfront sits The Salty Breeze, a modest hotel and restaurant where Martin D’Souza reigns as manager. Fairy lights drape the open veranda, casting a warm glow over the handful of diners savouring prawn curry and rice. Inside, a jukebox croons old Konkani love songs, competing with the clatter of plates and the occasional shout from the kitchen. Martin moves through it all with quiet grace—his apron crisp, his smile polite—greeting guests, refilling glasses, and keeping the chaos at bay. To the staff, he’s a steady hand; to the regulars, a familiar face with dreams they’ve heard about but never seen bloom. Tonight, the clock nears midnight, and the last customer lingers at a corner table—a burly man in a crumpled shirt, his eyes glassy from too many drinks. Martin approaches, his voice soft but firm. “Have a nice day, sir.
We’re closing up.” The man sways, slamming his empty glass down, and sneers. “Nice day? You think I’m having a nice day?” His words slur as he lurches forward. “My wife—that whore—left me. Right on our honeymoon. Took off with some bastard !” Martin raises his hands, placating. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean—” Before he can finish, the man’s hand swings, a sharp slap landing across Martin’s left cheek. The crack echoes, silencing the room. Martin stumbles back, his cheek flaring red, but he steadies himself, murmuring another apology as the drunk staggers out into the night, leaving a trail of muttered curses.
Martin trudges back to his home, the sting of the slap still burning on his left cheek, now a dull red against his weary face. The small apartment sits above a quiet street, its windows glowing faintly from the flicker of a television. Inside, Jennifer sprawls on the couch, her eyes glued to the screen, a half-empty glass of wine in hand. She glances up as he enters, her lips curling into a smirk. “Well, look at you,” she says, her tone dripping with disdain. “Who trashed you today, huh? That cheek’s screaming someone’s name.” Martin shrugs off his jacket, avoiding her gaze. “It’s nothing,” he murmurs, voice low. “Just a small misunderstanding.” Jennifer snorts, sitting up straighter. “Misunderstanding? Please. You’re a walking doormat, Martin. You and that pathetic family fish business I’m stuck running. People like you—licking everyone’s boots, kissing up to drunks and fishermen alike. It’s a wonder you don’t drown in their spit.” Her words cut sharp, but Martin doesn’t bite back. He turns away, shoulders slumped, and slips into the bathroom. The door clicks shut, and soon the sound of running water drowns out her voice. He emerges later, damp hair clinging to his forehead, and settles at the old piano in the corner, its keys worn from years of quiet dreams. His fingers hover, then press down, coaxing out a soft, romantic melody—a fragile offering to the room. “Shut that noise off!” Jennifer snaps, her voice slicing through the notes. “I’m trying to watch my series here.” Martin pauses, hands still on the keys, and offers a gentle smile. “I’m not that bad a singer, you know,” he says, almost to himself. Jennifer laughs, cold and bitter. “Not bad? You’re a joke, Martin. Just like your father—both of you, complete failures at singing. His wife— your precious mother—knew it too. That’s why she deserted you both. Rightfully so.”
Martin’s eyes settle on the faded photo of his father, Joseph, hanging crookedly above the piano— guitar in hand, a faint smile etched into his weathered face. The sting of Jennifer’s words lingers, sharp and cold, but he pushes it aside. He whispers to the picture, “She doesn’t mean it, Dad.
Jenny’s just stressed—running the fish business takes it out of her.” His tone softens, a flicker of hope breaking through. “Bless us, man? Let the fish business prosper. And the hotel—my hotel. I’ll play your favorite songs there, keep your spirit with me.” He imagines the jukebox at The Salty Breeze humming with Joseph’s old tunes, a quiet tribute to the dreams they shared. With a small, tired smile, he stands, the day’s weight heavy on his frame, and heads down the hall to his room— separate from Jennifer’s, a silent divide in their broken bond. The door clicks shut, and he collapses onto the bed, the distant murmur of her television lulling him into a restless sleep.
Martin slips into sleep, and the world dissolves around him. He finds himself standing in a vast, empty void—darkness stretching endlessly, the air thick and still. A figure emerges from the shadows: his father, Joseph, clad in the same worn shirt from the photo, his face etched with a sorrow Martin knows too well. A rush of warmth floods through him, and he steps closer, voice trembling with quiet joy. “Dad… I can’t believe it’s you. I’ve missed you so much.” Joseph’s expression doesn’t soften. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, fix on Martin, and his voice cuts through the silence like a low, urgent chord. “I’m not here for that, son. Listen to me—don’t repeat my mistakes. I let it all slip away, and your mother left me. You’ll lose your wife too if you’re not careful.” Martin blinks, startled, and shakes his head. “No, Dad, Jennifer’s not like that. She might seem cold, superficial even, but deep down, she loves everyone. She’s got a good heart—you don’t see it like I do.” Joseph’s gaze hardens, his lips pressing into a thin line. He steps closer, his shadow looming in the void. “Control, Martin. That’s what you need. Keep her in line, or she’ll walk away too. That’s all I can say.” His words hang heavy, echoing faintly as the darkness begins to swirl, pulling Martin back toward waking.
Sunday morning dawns over Panjim, the air carrying the faint toll of church bells. Martin rises early, smoothing his shirt as he prepares for service, a quiet ritual that steadies him. He steps toward Jennifer’s room to wake her, knocking softly on the door. Silence. He pushes it open—her bed is empty, sheets undisturbed. He pulls out his phone and dials her number, but it rings unanswered, the sound hollow in the quiet apartment. Frowning, he grabs his keys and heads out to the market near their home, the narrow lanes already stirring with vendors and chatter. He stops at a familiar stall, where an older woman—known to everyone as Market Aunty—sorts fish with deft hands. “Aunty, have you seen Jennifer this morning?” he asks, voice tight. She glances up, her eyes narrowing with a mix of pity and gossip. “Oh, Martin, she went off to church already. With John. Listen John you ar nice fellow, why are you sticking with her.” John Fernandez—his best friend, a lanky automobile mechanic, Martin can never suspect he had his eye over Jennifer. As Market Aunty turns back to her fish, Martin catches his reflection in a cracked mirror propped against the stall. But it’s not just his face staring back—his father’s image flickers there.Joseph’s voice rasps low, chilling the air. “You need to teach this John a lesson, son.” The reflection fades as quickly as it came, leaving Martin frozen, his pulse hammering in his ears.
The sun sinks low over Panjim, casting long shadows through the apartment as evening settles in. Martin sits at the kitchen table, the unease from the morning gnawing at him like a persistent ache. Jennifer breezes in, tossing her bag onto the counter, her expression indifferent. He swallows hard, forcing the words out despite the tightness in his chest. “Jenny… why didn’t you come to church with me today?” His voice is soft, almost hesitant, but there’s a tremor beneath it. Jennifer barely looks at him, shrugging as she pours herself a glass of water. “I had other plans,” she says, her tone sharp and dismissive. “I don’t have to update you about everything, Martin. You’re not my father.” The words hang in the air, cutting deeper than she knows. As she turns away, a faint whisper brushes Martin’s ear—Joseph’s voice, low and cold, seeping into his mind. “If her father kept her on the right track, this day wouldn’t have come.” The sound is so close, so real, that Martin’s head jerks slightly, his breath catching. His hand, resting on the table, curls into a fist, knuckles whitening as the whisper fades. It seems that Martin had reached his tipping point or some has forced him to reach a tipping point.
The next evening, Martin resolves to confront John, his mind a tangle of anger and doubt. He drives to John’s modest house on the outskirts of Panjim, the hum of cicadas filling the humid air as dusk settles. He knocks on the door, and John answers, his lanky frame filling the doorway, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. Martin forces a tight smile, stepping inside. “Hey, John. How’s the business going?” he asks, his voice steady but strained. He pulls a beer from his bag and offers it, fingers lingering on the bottle. John waves it off with a polite grin. “Not today, man. I’m busy.”
Then it happens—a sudden shift, as if the air itself grows colder. Martin’s calm facade shatters, his eyes darkening with an unfamiliar intensity, his posture stiffening. It’s as if Joseph’s soul has slipped into him, a vengeful presence curling through his veins. “Busy with what?” he growls, voice low and edged with a timbre not entirely his own. “To run away with my wife?” John’s lips twitch into a smirk, and he turns his head toward the bedroom, calling out lazily, “Honey, are you ready?” A faint voice drifts back—Jennifer’s, courteously calling, “John, whoever it is, sort it out quickly, please. I’m waiting for you.” The words ignite something primal in Martin. John steps closer, his smirk widening. “You’re just her paycheck, Martin. Nothing more. She needed a real man—like me.” The taunt unleashes the storm within. Fueled by Joseph’s wrath, Martin’s fist flies, a brutal punch driven by more than his own strength. It slams into John’s jaw, and John staggers, eyes rolling back, collapsing to the floor in a blackout heap. The silence that follows is heavy, charged with the echo of a father’s rage.
The next morning, sunlight filters weakly through the kitchen curtains, casting a pale glow over the room. Martin stands at the counter, his voice calm and measured as he speaks to Jennifer, who sits motionless at the table. “I had a dream about Dad, Jenny,” he says, stirring a pot on the stove. “He warned me—told me not to repeat his mistakes, or I’d lose you like he lost Mom. But I told him you’re different. You love everyone unconditionally, even if you hide it sometimes.” He turns, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “From now on, there won’t be any problems. You’ll never disobey me again. I’ve made your favorite mutton vindaloo, and I got you the best red wine—everything’s perfect now.” Beside the stove, a gruesome sight lurks in the shadows—a severed head, John’s, staring blankly, his body hacked into jagged pieces and piled haphazardly in a corner. Martin moves with eerie composure, plating the vindaloo. The chunks of meat are unnaturally large, far too big for lamb, glistening wetly under the light. He pours a glass of red wine, its deep crimson hue thick and unsettling, more like blood than any vintage. He sets the plate and glass on the table, where Jennifer sits—her skin pale, her body lifeless, propped up like a doll. Her lips, crudely stitched into a grotesque smile, stretch unnaturally across her face. Martin sits across from her, his eyes soft with a twisted affection. “See, Jenny, you look so good when you smile. Thanks to Dad, we’ll never fight anymore—I love the way you smile, now and always, just like this.”