Hello, my beautiful tulips!

First of all...

CONGRATULATIONS! 🎉 We just crossed 6.5K reads!

Seriously, thank you so much for every read, vote, follow, recommendation, and for simply giving this story a chance. When I started writing, I never imagined we'd reach this milestone, so thank you for being part of this journey. ❤️

अब एक ज़रूरी घोषणा। 📢

To my silent readers...

I know you're here.

The reads go up.

The votes appear.

But the comments section?

Desert.

Sahara Desert.

Not even a lost camel can be found there. 😭

I'm starting to believe some of you are professional spies.

You enter.

Read everything.

Collect all the information.

Refuse to elaborate.

Leave.

Honestly, respect the dedication. 🫡

Also, if you're enjoying the story, don't forget to share it with your friends. The more people we emotionally damage together, the better. ✨

Anyway...

Enough of my nonsense.

Grab your snacks, grab your theories, and enjoy the chapter!

Happy Reading! 🌷

 ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦋་༘࿐

The Office Door That Closed Behind Her :

FLASHBACK:-

It had been Wednesday.

Riya remembered because Wednesdays meant double maths and watered-down dal at lunch.

The sky had been pale that afternoon, neither sunny nor cloudy. 

Just undecided.

School had ended early due to a teacher's meeting, and most children had spilled into the orphanage courtyard like marbles escaping a jar.

Noise. 

Dust. 

Arguments over whose turn it was to bat first.

Riya had been in mid-argument.

"Arre cheating mat kar!" she had shouted at one of the boys, hands on hips, outrage blazing in full form.

(Hey, don't cheat!)

That was when Kamala Kaki's voice floated across the courtyard.

"Riya."

Not loud.

Not sharp.

Just her name.

Riya turned immediately.

There are tones children understand instinctively. This one was not angry. Not affectionate either.

Neutral.

That made it worse.

"Haan, Kaki?" she called back, jogging over.

(Yes, Aunt?)

Kamala Kaki stood near the corridor entrance, wiping her hands on the end of her saree pallu.

"Office mein aao zara."

(Come to the office for a bit.)

Office.

That word carried weight.

Office meant broken windows. 

Complaints. 

Forms. 

Meetings. 

Problems.

Riya's brain began racing.

What had she done?

Did someone complain about the cricket fight?

Did she forget her homework?

Did Sona break something and blame her?

She walked more slowly now.

Not scared.

But calculating.

Inside, she promised herself she would deny everything confidently.

The corridor felt longer than usual.

The office door was half-closed.

Kamala Kaki pushed it open fully and gestured her inside.

"Baitho."

(Sit.)

Riya stepped in.

And stopped.

Anita Sharma was already there.

Seated in the wooden chair near the desk. Back straight. Hands folded neatly in her lap.

She wore a pale blue cotton saree. The serious one. Not the casual visit one.

That detail registered instantly.

Riya's heartbeat shifted rhythm.

"Namaste," she said quickly, folding her hands.

Anita gave a small smile. Not wide. Not playful.

"Namaste, Riya."

Kamala Kaki closed the door behind her.

The click of the latch sounded louder than it should have.

Riya stood in the middle of the room, unsure.

"Baitho beta," Kamala Kaki repeated, pointing to the chair opposite the desk.

Riya sat.

Her feet didn't touch the ground fully. 

They hovered slightly.

No one spoke for a moment.

The office smelled faintly of old paper and phenyl.

A wall clock ticked.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Riya swallowed.

"Main... maafi maang leti hoon," she blurted suddenly. "Cricket mein thoda chillaya tha."

("I... I apologize," she blurted out suddenly. "I got a little loud during cricket.")

Kamala Kaki blinked.

Anita's lips twitched slightly.

"Kisi ne complaint nahi ki," Kamala Kaki said gently.

(No one made a complaint,)

Riya's shoulders lowered a fraction.

"Phir?"

(Then?)

Another silence.

Anita Sharma leaned forward slightly.

Her voice, when it came, was measured. 

Each word placed carefully, like stepping stones over water.

"Riya, tum 11 saal ki ho gayi ho."

(Riya, you have turned 11.)

Riya nodded cautiously.

"Achha padhti ho. Responsible ho. Sabse mil-jul kar rehti ho."

(You study well. You are responsible. You get along with everyone.)

This did not feel like praise.

This felt like a build-up.

Kamala Kaki's hands were clasped tightly in her lap. That was unusual. She usually gestured when speaking.

"Ek family aayi hai," Anita said.

(A family has come.)

The sentence landed in the air.

Riya waited for the rest.

There was always more.

"Woh tumhe apnana chahte hain."

(They want to accept you.)

The words were soft.

But final.

Riya stared at her.

She understood the sentence.

Of course she understood it.

Children in orphanages grow up understanding that sentence before they understand fractions.

Still, her brain did not attach it to herself.

Someone else, maybe.

Not her.

"Matlab?" she asked.

(What do you mean?)

Her voice sounded smaller than she expected.

Kamala Kaki answered this time.

"Matlab... woh log tumhe apne ghar le jaana chahte hain. Apni beti bana kar."

("I mean... they want to take you to their home. To make you their daughter.")

There it was.

Beti.

(daughter.)

The word echoed strangely.

Riya's fingers gripped the edge of the chair.

She felt no excitement.

No joy.

No immediate fear.

Just... stillness.

Like the world had paused and was waiting for her reaction.

Anita continued, calm and steady.

"Abhi sirf baat ho rahi hai. 

Process hota hai. 

Time lagta hai. 

Par unhone specifically tumhara naam liya hai."

("Right now, it's just a discussion.

There's a process. It takes time.

But they specifically mentioned your name.")

Specifically.

Why?

How?

A thousand questions rushed forward but jammed at her throat.

She looked from Anita to Kamala Kaki.

Neither looked celebratory.

Neither smiled widely.

Their eyes held something else.

Care.

And something close to sorrow.

That unsettled her more than anything.

"Mujhe yahan se jaana padega?" she asked.

(Do I have to leave from here?)

There it was.

The only question that mattered.

Not about the house.

Not about the family.

Not about comfort or money or future.

Just this.

Will I have to leave here?

Kamala Kaki did not look at Anita.

She did not soften the truth.

"Haan."

(Yes.)

One word.

No cushion.

No decoration.

Haan.

The crack formed there.

Not visible.

But it's real.

Riya's ears rang slightly.

The office felt smaller.

The chair is harder.

She nodded slowly.

As if accepting homework instructions.

"Achha."

(Alright.)

That was all she said.

Anita studied her carefully.

"Tum kuch poochna chahti ho?"

(Do you want to ask something?)

Yes.

She wanted to ask everything.

Who are they?

Why me?

When?

Will I see Aira?

Will Sona cry?

Will I come back?

Do I have to go if I don't want to?

But the questions remained unanswered.

So she shook her head.

"Nahi."

(No.)

Kamala Kaki leaned forward slightly now.

"Riya. Yeh koi punishment nahi hai."

(Riya. This is not a punishment.)

"I know," Riya replied quickly.

Too quickly.

The clock ticked again.

Tick.

Tick.

Anita reached into her handbag.

Pulled out a folded cream-colored paper.

Not an official document.

Not stamped.

Just thick paper, folded carefully.

"Unhone yeh diya hai," Anita said softly. "Tumhare liye."

(They have given this, Anita said softly. For you.)

Riya stared at it.

"For me?"

"Haan."

(Yes.)

Kamala Kaki added gently, "Isme unhone tumse baat likhi hai."

(They have written a note for you in this.)

A letter.

For her.

Specifically for her.

Anita held it out.

Riya hesitated before taking it.

The paper felt heavier than it should have.

Warm from being inside the bag.

Real.

"Abhi mat padho agar nahi chaho," Anita said. "room main jaakar... akela mein pad lena."

(Don't read it now if you don't want to," Anita said. "Go to your room... read it alone.)

Akela mein.

(Alone.)

That instruction carved something deeper.

Kamala Kaki's voice lowered.

"Abhi is baare mein kisi se baat mat karna. Jab tak process clear na ho."

(Don't talk to anyone about this for now. Not until the process is clear.)

Riya's heartbeat stumbled.

"Kisi se bhi nahi?" she asked.

(Not to anyone at all? she asked.)

Anita's gaze softened.

"Kisi se bhi nahi."

(Not to anyone.)

The air thickened.

There was one person the silence hurt more about.

But she nodded.

"Theek hai."

(Okay.)

She folded the paper once more and slid it carefully into the pocket of her skirt.

Close.

Hidden.

Safe.

"Jaakar khel lo," Kamala Kaki said gently.

(You can go play now.)

As if this conversation had been about homework after all.

Riya stood.

Her legs felt steady.

Strangely steady.

She walked to the door.

Her hand paused on the handle.

For half a second, she wanted to turn around and say something dramatic.

Refuse.

Cry.

Laugh.

Ask.

Instead, she opened the door.

Stepped out.

And the office door closed behind her.

The latch clicked.

Inside that room, her childhood had shifted direction.

Outside, children were still arguing about cricket.

The world had not changed its volume.

Only she had changed its meaning.

She stood in the corridor for a moment.

Then slipped the letter deeper into her school bag.

Zipped it shut.

And walked back into the noise like nothing had happened.

But something had.

And it had begun with three sentences spoken carefully across a wooden desk.

"Ek family aayi hai."

"Woh tumhe apnana chahte hain."

"Abhi sirf baat ho rahi hai."

And one honest answer.

"Haan."

She Opened Alone,.   in Her Letter:

FLASHBACK

She did not open it immediately.

That was the strange part.

For three hours after stepping out of Kamala Kaki's office, Riya behaved exactly like herself.

She finished the cricket argument.

She accused someone of unfair bowling.

She laughed.

She ran.

She even stole half of Sona's biscuit at snack time.

But her bag stayed closer than usual.

When she sat, it rested against her leg.

When she stood, she picked it up.

When someone asked why she was carrying it around even after school hours, she shrugged.

"Habit."

It was not a habit.

It was gravity.

The letter inside it felt like a second heartbeat.

Waiting.

She told herself she would open it at night.

But night meant shared room.

Shared space.

Shared breathing.

She needed a place where her face would not be observed.

Where silence would not ask questions.

So after dinner, when most children gathered near the TV room for the usual noisy serial time, Riya slipped away quietly.

She was careful with her footsteps.

Not guilty.

Just deliberate.

The corridor lights hummed faintly.

The orphanage always felt different after dinner. 

Softer. 

Slower. 

Shadows stretching longer against walls.

She climbed the narrow staircase that led to the terrace.

Few children went there at night. It was technically allowed, but only before nine. After that, Kamala Kaki preferred everyone indoors.

The sky above was deep blue, almost black, but not fully. A thin slice of moon hung quietly, like it was observing without interfering.

The terrace floor still held the warmth of the day.

Riya walked to the far corner, where the boundary wall met a small water tank.

She sat down.

She pulled her bag into her lap.

For a moment, she just held it.

Her fingers hovered over the zipper.

Her mind replayed Anita Sharma's tone.

"Akela mein pad lena."

Alone.

She was alone.

She unzipped the bag slowly.

The sound seemed louder up here.

She reached inside and felt the paper.

Thick.

Smooth.

Folded neatly.

She pulled it out.

Cream-colored.

Heavier than notebook pages.

There was her name written on the outside.

Not "Riya" casually scribbled.

But carefully.

"Riya."

The handwriting was unfamiliar.

Steady.

Adult.

She stared at her name for a long time.

No one had ever written her name like that before.

Not as if it belonged somewhere important.

Her throat tightened.

She unfolded the paper.

Once.

Twice.

The night air brushed against it gently.

For a second, she considered folding it back and not reading at all.

Because as long as she didn't read it, nothing was confirmed.

Nothing was final.

But curiosity is stubborn.

And fear hates uncertainty more than truth.

So she read.

The first line began respectfully.

Not dramatically.

Not emotionally overwhelming.

It addressed her directly.

He did not speak down to her.

It did not treat her like a charity case.

She spoke as if she mattered.

That alone made her blink.

The letter did not start with "We want to adopt you."

It began with something else.

It spoke about time.

About searching.

About loss.

About a child who had disappeared years ago.

Riya's brows pulled together.

She read more carefully.

The words were calm, but beneath them ran something urgent.

They wrote about a day that had broken their lives.

About confusion.

About police reports.

About waiting.

About never fully believing she was gone.

Her heartbeat slowed.

Then it quickened.

Then she stumbled.

She read the next paragraph twice.

Three times.

The air around her seemed thinner now.

The letter said something impossible.

It said they believed she was their daughter.

Not metaphorically.

Not emotionally.

Literally.

It spoke of hospital records.

Of a birthmark.

Of the dates that matched.

Of a child taken during a crowded festival.

Kidnapped.

The word was written plainly.

No decoration.

No dramatic underline.

Just there.

Kidnapped.

Riya's fingers trembled slightly.

She stopped reading.

Stared at the word.

Kidnapped.

Her.

No.

That couldn't be.

She had always been here.

Hadn't she?

Orphanage was not a place she arrived at.

It was simply the place that existed in her memory from the beginning.

She tried to think back.

Before five years old.

Before school started.

Before she learned to braid her hair.

Nothing clear came.

Just blurred impressions.

Voices without faces.

A scent she could not name.

A fragment of red cloth.

Or was she imagining it now?

Her breathing became uneven.

She forced herself to continue reading.

The letter did not make a demand.

It did not say "come back to us immediately."

It said they had found records through an investigation reopened recently.

It said they had been searching quietly for years.

It said they were not certain at first.

But the more they learned, the more certain they became.

They wrote that they would wait for official confirmation.

They wrote that they would respect her feelings.

They wrote that they did not want to disturb her life without truth.

They wrote that if she was indeed their daughter, they wanted her to know that she had never been abandoned.

Never unwanted.

Never forgotten.

Riya's vision blurred.

Not exactly with tears.

More like shock.

She lowered the paper slowly.

The terrace seemed unfamiliar now.

The orphanage walls below felt... temporary.

If this was true, then everything she believed about herself had been wrong.

Not orphaned.

Taken.

Not left.

Lost.

And searched for.

A strange warmth flooded her chest.

She was immediately swayed by fear.

If she had a real family.

If they were alive.

If they were searching.

If they were rich, as Kamala Kaki once casually mentioned about some visiting family.

Then what did that mean?

Did that mean she did not belong here?

Did that mean Aira was not her first person anymore?

Did that mean Sona would stop clinging to her at night?

Her stomach twisted.

Excitement flickered too.

A house.

Parents.

Maybe a room of her own.

A cupboard that belongs only to her.

Birthdays celebrated intentionally.

Someone who knew her from before she knew herself.

The thought felt intoxicating.

And terrifying.

She read the last paragraph.

It did not pressure her.

It simply said they hoped one day she would read this letter and know that she was loved long before she understood the word.

Loved continuously.

Even in absence.

They signed it with two names.

A mother's name.

A father's name.

And beneath that, in smaller handwriting:

We are waiting.

Waiting.

Not demanding.

Not commanding.

Waiting.

The paper shook slightly in her hands.

She lowered it to her lap.

The terrace was silent except for distant traffic hum.

She did not cry.

That surprised her.

She expected tears.

Instead, she felt split into four different versions of herself.

One was thrilled.

Chosen.

Wanted.

Found.

One was angry.

Why now?

Why after 11 years?

Why not sooner?

One was scared.

What if this was a mistake?

What if it wasn't true?

What if she left and nothing felt like home?

And one... one was guilty.

Guilty for even feeling excited.

Because downstairs, in Room 6, two girls believed she belonged entirely to them.

Aira, who shared silent conversations with her through eye contact alone.

Sona, who followed her like a small echo.

If this letter was true, then she had a past that did not include them.

And a future that might not either.

The guilt pressed harder than everything else.

She folded the letter carefully.

Precisely along the same creases.

As if respecting it too much to crumple.

She pressed it against her chest for a moment.

Just to feel its weight.

Then she laughed softly.

Not from humor.

From disbelief.

"So I was kidnapped?" she whispered to the night.

The word felt dramatic.

Like something from movies.

Not from her life.

But the letter did not feel like fiction.

It was researched.

Grounded.

Certain.

Certainty scared her the most.

Because if this was true, then she was not an orphan by fate.

She was a missing piece returned.

And missing pieces rarely fit back without shifting the entire picture.

She sat there for a long time.

Minutes stretched.

The moon climbed higher.

The orphanage below grew quieter.

Her mind replayed Kamala Kaki's "Haan."

Will I have to leave this place?

Haan.

She imagined telling Aira.

She imagined not telling her.

Both scenarios are harmful.

Eventually, the air grew cooler.

She folded the letter again.

Slid it back into her bag.

Zipped it shut.

This time, the bag did not feel like a school bag.

It felt like a container of identity.

She stood.

Walked to the edge of the terrace.

Looked down at the courtyard where she had played hours ago.

Everything looked the same.

Nothing felt the same.

When she went back downstairs, she did not rush.

She did not look shaken.

She entered Room 6 quietly.

Aira glanced up immediately.

Their eyes met.

Riya smiled.

Perfectly normal.

Too perfect.

Aira held her gaze a second longer than usual.

As if sensing something unsaid.

Riya lay down beside Sona.

He faced the wall.

Her mind did not sleep easily that night.

It ran.

Backwards.

Forwards.

Around.

She imagined a woman somewhere who might be her mother.

Imagined a man who might recognize her laugh.

Imagine doors opening.

Imagine doors closing.

By morning, one thing had settled quietly inside her:

If this was true, she would have to choose how to be two people at once.

The girl who belonged to Room 6.

And the girl who once belonged somewhere else.

And that is why, days later in the present, when Aira watched her touch her bag repeatedly...

When her laughter sounded slightly rehearsed...

When her eyes drifted mid-conversation...

It was not distracting.

It was a division.

Riya was already standing with one foot in a life no one else could see.

And she was trying very hard not to let it show.

˚✿🍒𐙚⋆˚

Thank you so much for reading, my beautiful tulips! ❤️

I hope you enjoyed this chapter.

If you liked it, please don't forget to vote!

🎯 Vote Goal: 22 Votes

We reached 12 votes on the previous chapter, so let's see if we can hit 22 this time!

And before you go, I'd love to hear your thoughts:

1. Do you think Riya will tell Aira and Sona the truth?

2. What do you think will happen next?

Drop your theories in the comments. I'd love to read them! 👀

And if we reach the vote goal sooner than expected, I'll try to bring the next chapter a little earlier. 😉

Thank you again for reading.

Take good care of yourselves.

See you in the next chapter! ❤️

RADHE KRISHNA🌷**