Something exploded without a sound.  

No fires, no bombs, no cries were listened. 

Just the heat and a smell surrounded the room. 

Smell of burnt flesh and some papers. 

What made the explosion? What made it so silent? 

Someone or something had killed the innocent writer. 

Ohh! Look at that blood on floor and that dark burned skin.

Torn, shattered, disfigured. He is there. Lifeless. Lonely. Burnt. 

What could be the reason for such a brutal act? 

A week later, explosive was found. 

It was a phone call. 

A report was formed. 

“Few words were exchanged by the killer and the victim. 

Explosion took place the moment the writer hung up. 

The last words were ” I hate you” 

Said by the one who died like a sinner.. 

 The one who loved like a child.  “


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