RAYA's POV 

"You were the one who helped her escape that night.

It was your hands that unlocked the gate, your trembling fingers that pushed it open so she could vanish into the dark.

You chose her, even then.

So why are you still here?

Why didn’t you follow her into the night?

She told you she would come back for you, didn’t she?

She looked you in the eyes and made a promise—

Where is she now?

Did she ever return?

This marriage shattered because of you.

You are the crack that broke the glass.

You, the child born to us, have brought nothing but ruin.

You are not a blessing.

You are a curse made of flesh.”

Those words—those knives disguised as memories—pierced through the fragile walls of my mind the moment I opened my eyes.

I hadn’t dreamt. There had been no escape, no gentler world waiting behind my closed eyelids.

Only that voice.

Only those words.

Dripping with venom.

Drenched in truth.

Or at least, what they believed to be true.

A single tear slipped from the corner of my eye, carving a lonely path down my face like a river through ancient stone. I didn’t try to stop it. There was no point anymore.

The moonlight spilled into the room through the open window like liquid silver, soft and cold.

Everything was cloaked in stillness—

The kind of stillness that feels like mourning.

Outside, the city of Kolkata slept under a blanket of silence, unaware of the war waging inside my chest.

The lights in every home had been turned off, but one light remained—

The moon.

Unmoving. Unblinking.

Watching me.

Sleep, once a quiet refuge, had abandoned me.

Now, every time I closed my eyes, the memories surged back with brutal force.

That night.

Those words.

Her.

I begged myself not to think about it.

But memories don’t obey begging.

And grief doesn’t care for silence.

The thoughts came anyway—

And with them came the tears. Uninvited.

But constant.

It’s unbearable. The pain.

It’s not just emotional—no, it’s physical.

A sharp, crawling ache beneath my skin.

A choking tightness in my throat like I’m being strangled from the inside.

My eyes sting with unshed tears that have nowhere left to go.

My chest hurts with every breath, and my heart—

It feels like it’s weeping, quietly, in a language only I can understand.

I don’t belong here.

Not in this house.

Not in this family.

Not even in my own skin.

My father… he looks at me and sees the ghost of a woman he once loved and now hates.

My sister… she still smiles at me, but I wonder if she sees through me, if she too feels the weight of my presence like something unnatural.

I feel like a stranger in the place I once called home.

A misfit puzzle piece forced into the wrong picture.

Every hallway feels colder.

Every face feels further.

And the worst part is—I know all of this.

I know what I am to them.

I know what I’m not.

And yet…

I can do nothing to change it.

I swallowed a sob that clawed up my throat like a scream desperate to be born.

I couldn't let it escape.

If I cried too loudly, I’d wake her—my sister, the only soul who still shares a little light with me.

I didn’t want her to see me like this.

Broken.

Ugly with sorrow.

So I rubbed my cheeks raw, as if by erasing the tears I could erase the pain.

But pain doesn’t vanish so easily.

It hides.

It waits.

And it returns.

I curled into myself and hugged the pillow at my side like it could hold me together—

Like it could fill the emptiness that bloomed endlessly inside my chest.

My eyes drifted to the moon again, searching its pale face for something—

Comfort, maybe.

Understanding.

A sign.

And somewhere between the heartache and the moonlight, sleep took me.

Not gently.

Not kindly.

But like a thief stealing me away from my sorrow for just a few hours.

.

.

.

.

.

.

A koel called somewhere outside, its song soft and echoing through the still morning air. The sky beyond the window had turned a gentle shade of orange, and the city was slowly stirring from its sleep.

I opened my eyes, feeling the stiffness of a restless night still clinging to my body. The pillow beneath my head was slightly damp, but I didn’t think about it too much.

The room was quiet, filled with the pale light of dawn. Dust floated in the air like tiny flecks of gold. I could hear the distant sound of someone sweeping a courtyard below, the bristles brushing against stone in a slow, steady rhythm.

My sister was still fast asleep beside me, wrapped tightly in the blanket, her breath soft and steady. I didn’t want to wake her.

I sat up slowly and stretched. My back ached a little, and my arms felt heavy. I let my feet touch the floor and stayed there for a while, not moving, just listening to the early sounds of the world outside the window.

The trees swayed slightly in the morning breeze. A few birds darted past. Somewhere nearby, a pressure cooker hissed—someone’s breakfast already on the stove.

I stood and walked to the window. From here, I could see the rooftops of other houses. Some had clotheslines strung across them, still filled with yesterday’s laundry. Others were empty and silent. The sky above them all looked wide and soft, as if the city was still yawning.

Behind me, the bed creaked gently.

“Didi?”

I turned around. My sister was awake now, sitting up slowly, rubbing her eyes with her fists.

“Good morning,” I said.

She nodded, her voice still thick with sleep. “It’s morning already?”

“Hmm. You slept well?”

“I think so.” She looked at the window. “It’s nice today.”

I smiled a little. “Yeah. It is.”

She slid out of bed and stood beside me, her hair a messy cloud around her face. For a moment, we just stood there together, looking out at the quiet world.

“I’m hungry,” she said finally, looking up at me.

I placed a hand gently on her head. “Let’s go find something to eat.”

She nodded, and we walked out of the room together. The hallway was cool and dim. Everything felt a little quieter than usual, but not in a bad way.

Just quiet.

Just calm.

And for that moment, it was enough.

The kitchen had a soft warmth to it—the kind that came from the early morning sun slipping in through the high window and resting on the tiled counter.

The air smelled faintly of tea leaves and old wood.

Somewhere outside, a cycle bell rang, followed by a street vendor calling out softly.

It was just another morning in Kolkata.

My sister and I stepped into the dining area. The chairs were tucked in neatly, the table empty, except for a few stacked plates and a folded newspaper. The familiar clink of utensils came from the adjacent kitchen.

He was already there—my father.

Standing by the stove. Quiet, focused.

He was making tea, as he did every morning.

No one else was allowed to make it.

It was always his job, his routine—unchanged, untouched.

He noticed us but didn’t say anything right away.

Just gave a small nod.

Not cold. Not warm.

Just… neutral.

“Good morning,” I said, voice low but steady.

“Hmm,” he replied, without turning. “You both woke up early today.”

“We did,” I said simply.

My sister sat at the table, swinging her legs, still half asleep.

He poured the tea into three cups, placed them on the tray, and brought it over.

He set the cups down, then sat across from me.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable.

Just quiet.

He picked up the newspaper, flipping to the second page, and took a sip of his tea.

I wrapped my hands around my cup, letting the warmth settle into my palms.

“You have school today?” he asked, glancing at my sister.

She nodded. “Half-day.”

He gave a slight hum, then went back to reading.

He wasn’t much for conversation, not anymore.

But he didn’t seem angry.

Not distant either.

Just… there.

Present, in the way some people are—without words, without expressions.

Just sitting across the table, sharing the same air.

For a long time, I watched him over the rim of my cup.

His face had grown more tired lately.

More lines, more quiet.

We didn’t talk about anything important.

No old fights.

No apologies.

No forced small talk.

But somehow, it felt like a step forward.

Small. Barely noticeable.

But a step.

After breakfast, the house slowly began to wake with its usual rhythm.

Soft footsteps echoed from distant corners. A door creaked shut somewhere down the hallway. The ceiling fan above the dining table hummed a steady, low sound that almost faded into the background.

My sister left for school, her bag bouncing against her side, her hair in a loose ponytail. She waved at me with a grin before disappearing through the gate and into the narrow street. I watched her until she vanished around the corner, swallowed by the morning crowd and honking autos.

Then the silence settled.

Not complete silence—but the kind that feels… heavier than it should.

I walked back to my room, still tired, hoping to fold the blankets, maybe distract myself with a book or just lie down and stare at the ceiling for a while. I wasn’t ready to think.

But as soon as I stepped inside, I stopped.

Something was different.

The window was closed.

I stared at it, frowning.

I was certain I’d left it open.

I remembered how the curtain had been dancing gently in the morning breeze. I remembered feeling that soft wind on my face just a little while ago.

Now the curtain hung limp. Still.

The window locked.

Tight.

A flicker of confusion passed through me.

Maybe Baba had come in and shut it? But why? When? I hadn’t heard him near the room.

I walked over to the window, my footsteps light.

The air felt… wrong.

Not cold.

Just... off.

I touched the glass.

It was chilled. Not freezing, but noticeably cooler than the rest of the room. I leaned in closer, and that’s when I saw it—a faint patch of mist, almost like someone had breathed against the glass.

From the inside.

I reached out and wiped it with my palm, but the moment my skin met the glass, I paused.

There was a mark.

Subtle. Almost invisible unless you were looking for it.

But there.

A smudge—no, a handprint.

Long fingers. Thin.

Not my hand.

Not Baba’s.

Too narrow. Too tall. Almost stretched.

It didn’t make sense.

I stepped back slowly. My eyes scanned the room, suddenly aware of the silence. The fan wasn’t spinning. I hadn't turned it off. Had it stopped on its own?

I listened hard.

No footsteps.

No sound from the kitchen.

No rustle of pages from the living room where Baba usually read his newspaper.

Just stillness.

And a strange tightness in the air.

Like the room was holding its breath.

I looked around—nothing seemed disturbed. My books were where I’d left them. My water bottle. The chair.

But something felt off.

Like someone had been here.

Not long ago.

Just enough to leave a presence, a shift in the room’s balance.

I rubbed my arm without thinking. A chill crawled up my spine, but I didn’t want to admit I was scared.

Maybe I was overthinking.

Maybe it was just tiredness, or stress, or a trick of the light.

Still, I backed away from the window and glanced once more over my shoulder.

The curtain moved.

Barely.

Just a small twitch.

But there was no breeze.

No fan.

No movement.

Just that faint, quiet flutter—like someone had passed behind it.

Or brushed it, lightly. Intentionally.

I didn’t check it. I didn’t want to.

I just left the room.

But the feeling followed me down the hall—that strange, unwelcome weight.

As if the room wasn’t empty anymore.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Kuch toh hai

Dil ghabraye

Kuch toh hai jo

Saans na aaye

Kuch toh hai jo

Hum hontho se

Kehte kehte

Keh na paaye