˚˖𓍢ִִ໋🌊🦈˚˖𓍢ִ✧˚.

🌷 Hello Tulips! 🌷

Welcome back to another chapter. 💛

I hope you're doing well and taking care of yourselves.

Before we start, thank you so much for all the reads, votes, and support on the story. Every single one means more than you know.

Now enough talking from me.

Grab your snacks, water, tea, coffee, or whatever you're currently surviving on and enjoy the chapter.

Happy Reading! ✨

The orphanage was still asleep.

The sky outside remained dark.

Yet Aira was awake.

She hadn't really slept at all.

The small yellow night lamp in the corner continued glowing softly, casting warm shadows across the room.

It always stayed on.

Darkness had never been her friend.

Across the room, Sona slept peacefully.

Exhaustion had finally won.

After everything that had happened that day, she hadn't lasted long before falling asleep.

Aira envied her a little.

Sleep had never come that easily to her.

Slowly, she sat up.

Careful not to wake Sona.

The blanket slipped from her shoulders as she reached for her bag.

Her fingers immediately found what they were searching for.

The letter.

For a moment, she simply stared at it.

The edges were already slightly creased.

She had unfolded it so many times since evening that it no longer looked new.

Yet somehow...

she unfolded it again.

And again.

And again.

As if the words might change.

As if reading them one more time would somehow bring Riya back.

Quietly, Aira moved toward the window.

She sat beside it with her back resting against the wall.

One knee drawn to her chest.

The letter resting in her lap.

Outside, the world remained silent.

Inside, her heart did not.

Her eyes moved across the familiar words.

Words she already knew by heart.

Words written in a hurry.

Words that somehow hurt more each time she read them.

"I waited."

The sentence blurred.

Aira blinked.

"I kept thinking... Aru will come."

A fresh sting filled her eyes.

She lowered her head.

The paper trembled slightly between her fingers.

Not because she was cold.

Because she wasn't.

The room was warm.

The night was quiet.

Everything was exactly as it had always been.

Except Riya wasn't here.

And suddenly...

that felt impossible to ignore.

Her throat tightened.

A familiar ache spread through her chest.

The kind that came before tears.

The kind that came before panic.

Without thinking, her other hand moved toward the pendant resting beneath her shirt.

Her fingers wrapped around it tightly.

As though holding onto it could somehow stop the loneliness from growing.

It didn't.

Because loneliness was strange.

It wasn't loud.

It wasn't violent.

It simply sat beside you.

Quietly.

Until one day you looked around...

and realized someone was missing.

And the empty space they left behind hurt more than anything else.

Aira pressed her lips together.

Trying.

Trying very hard.

Not to cry.

Because crying changed nothing.

It never had.

Yet the tears came anyway.

One after another.

Silent.

Unnoticed.

They slipped down her cheeks and disappeared beneath her chin before falling onto the letter in her lap.

Aira didn't wipe them away.

She simply stared at the words.

The same words she had already read countless times.

The same words that somehow hurt more now than they had earlier.

Because now the orphanage was quiet.

Now there were no distractions.

No people moving around.

No voices.

No tasks.

No goodbyes left to say.

Only absence.

And absence had a way of becoming louder at night.

Her eyes drifted toward another line.

"I wanted one last argument."

A small, broken smile appeared for barely a second.

Riya always argued.

About everything.

Food.

Books.

Games.

The weather.

Things that didn't even matter.

Aira remembered sitting beneath the neem tree while Riya passionately explained why mango candies were superior to every other candy in existence.

Sona had disagreed.

An argument had followed.

A very dramatic argument.

One that had lasted nearly twenty minutes.

Aira had said nothing.

She had simply sat there listening while the other two complained about each other.

By the end of it, all three had been sharing the same packet of candies.

The memory hurt.

Because it was happy.

And happy memories were cruel when the people inside them were gone.

The smile disappeared.

A fresh tear landed on the paper.

Aira lowered her head.

The room suddenly felt too quiet.

Too empty.

Too large.

As though someone had removed an important piece from it.

A piece that couldn't be replaced.

Her fingers tightened around the pendant.

Cold metal pressed against her palm.

She welcomed the feeling.

Anything that helped her focus.

Anything that kept her anchored.

Outside the window, the night stretched endlessly.

Dark.

Silent.

Distant.

Aira tried looking at the stars.

Usually they helped.

Usually they distracted her.

Tonight they didn't.

Because every thought kept leading back to the same place.

Riya was gone.

Not tomorrow.

Not next week.

Gone.

The realization settled heavily inside her chest.

And with it came something else.

Fear.

Not the loud kind.

Not the immediate kind.

The older kind.

The familiar kind.

The kind that had followed her for years.

Slowly.

Patiently.

Waiting.

A voice echoed somewhere in the back of her mind.

A voice she wished she could forget.

"See?"

"Everyone leaves eventually."

Aira froze.

Her breathing hitched.

The letter trembled slightly.

Another memory surfaced.

Not complete.

Never complete.

Only fragments.

Broken pieces.

Dark walls.

A locked door.

Heavy footsteps.

A shadow standing over a much smaller child.

"Nobody wanted you."

Her grip on the pendant tightened instantly.

The room blurred.

"You're a burden."

Her chest tightened.

"If people leave, it's because they want to."

Aira squeezed her eyes shut.

No.

No.

No.

The words weren't real.

They weren't happening.

The room wasn't dark.

The door wasn't locked.

She wasn't there anymore.

She wasn't.

But memories rarely cared about logic.

Her breathing became uneven.

Too fast.

Too shallow.

The familiar warning signs appeared immediately.

Panic.

The beginning of panic.

Her shoulders tensed.

Her fingers dug into the pendant.

The edges pressed painfully into her skin.

And suddenly—

another memory appeared.

Different.

New.

A road.

Bright afternoon sunlight.

A crowd.

A calm voice.

"It's okay."

Aira's eyes opened.

The room returned.

The window.

The yellow lamp.

The letter.

The stars.

Reality.

She swallowed hard.

Trying to focus.

Trying to stay present.

The voice returned again.

Not the cruel one.

The gentle one.

"You don't have to talk."

Aira stared at the floor.

For some reason, she could remember every detail.

The woman kneeling in front of her.

The patience.

The warmth.

The way she had stayed.

She hadn't looked annoyed.

She hadn't looked angry.

She hadn't demanded anything.

She had simply stayed.

The memory felt strange.

Almost unreal.

Because adults weren't supposed to do that.

At least...

that had always been Aira's experience.

Yet the woman had.

Aira slowly pulled her knees closer.

Resting her forehead against them.

The panic hadn't disappeared.

But it had stopped growing.

Her breathing remained shaky.

Still uneven.

Yet no longer spiraling.

A faint memory surfaced.

The woman taking slow breaths.

Calm breaths.

Steady breaths.

Without realizing it, Aira copied her.

One breath.

Then another.

Slowly.

Carefully.

The way she had seen earlier.

The first attempt failed.

The second wasn't much better.

The third lasted longer.

Gradually, the pressure inside her chest eased.

Only a little.

But enough.

Enough to stop the panic from swallowing her whole.

Aira remained still.

Listening to the silence.

Feeling her heartbeat slowly settle.

And then her eyes drifted back to the letter.

One line caught her attention immediately.

"One day, you're going to meet people who care about you."

Aira stared at it.

Longer than she should have.

The words felt impossible.

Like something written for someone else.

Not her.

Certainly not her.

Yet she couldn't stop reading them.

"People who stay."

Her fingers tightened around the paper.

"People who choose you."

The tears returned.

Because she wanted to believe those words.

She really did.

But believing had never been easy.

Not after everything.

Not after all the times hope had turned into disappointment.

Still...

for reasons she couldn't explain...

a familiar face appeared in her thoughts again.

Dark eyes.

Gentle voice.

A patient smile.

"Take care, Angel."

Aira looked away from the letter immediately.

Almost as though she'd been caught doing something wrong.

Her heart gave a strange little ache.

Different from the others.

Softer.

Confusing.

She didn't understand it.

So she stopped trying.

Outside, the stars continued shining.

Inside, the yellow lamp continued glowing.

And beside the window sat a little girl holding a letter in one hand and a pendant in the other.

Missing someone who had left.

Thinking about someone she had just met.

And wondering, for the first time in a very long while... what it would feel like if someone actually stayed.

The thought lingered.

Quiet.

Dangerous.

Because hope had always been dangerous.

Aira had learned that lesson a long time ago.

Hope made people wait.

Hope made people trust.

Hope made people believe things would be different.

And when they weren't...

hope hurt.

Her eyes slowly dropped back to the letter.

The paper was beginning to wrinkle beneath her fingers.

She didn't care.

The words felt too important.

Too precious.

As though folding the letter away would somehow make Riya feel further away.

So she kept reading.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Not because she didn't remember the words.

But because hearing Riya's voice inside her head felt better than hearing the silence.

The orphanage remained asleep around her.

Occasionally, a dog barked somewhere outside.

A distant vehicle passed.

Then silence returned.

Hours seemed to stretch endlessly.

At some point, Aira stopped reading.

The letter remained open in her lap.

Her gaze drifted toward the window.

Toward the stars.

Toward nothing in particular.

People always talked about missing someone as though it happened suddenly.

Like a switch.

One moment they were fine.

The next they weren't.

For Aira, it wasn't like that.

Missing Riya arrived slowly.

In pieces.

A thought here.

A memory there.

A sentence she wanted to tell her.

A joke she would have laughed at.

A glance toward an empty bed.

Each one small.

Each one harmless.

Until together they became something heavy enough to carry.

Her chest tightened again.

Not panic this time.

Just sadness.

Pure sadness.

The kind that sat quietly beside you and refused to leave.

Aira lowered her head.

The pendant slipped from her fingers briefly before she caught it again.

The familiar metal rested against her palm.

Cold.

Solid.

Real.

Unlike memories.

Unlike promises.

Unlike people.

For a moment, she stared at it.

The chain tangled slightly around her fingers.

She untangled it absentmindedly.

Something she had done hundreds of times before.

Maybe thousands.

She didn't remember a time without it.

Not really.

It had always been there.

The way the stars were always there.

The way fear was always there.

The way loneliness was always there.

Some things simply became part of you.

Aira pressed the pendant against her chest.

Closing her eyes.

The room remained silent.

And in that silence...

another memory appeared.

Not a painful one this time.

Not completely.

The neem tree.

Warm sunlight.

Riya talking.

Talking.

And talking.

As usual.

Sona pretending not to listen.

As usual.

Aira sitting between them.

Watching.

Listening.

Feeling something she rarely felt anywhere else.

Safe.

The memory lasted only a few seconds.

Then it vanished.

Leaving behind an ache so sharp that fresh tears gathered instantly.

Because now she understood something.

The orphanage would continue.

Tomorrow would come.

Breakfast would happen.

Classes would happen.

Children would laugh.

People would move on.

The world wouldn't stop simply because one person had left.

But her world had changed.

Even if nobody else noticed.

A tiny sound escaped her throat.

Not a word.

Not even close.

Just a broken breath.

A small crack in the silence.

Aira quickly pressed her lips together.

As though afraid someone might hear.

Old habits.

Very old habits.

Outside, a cloud drifted across the moon.

The room darkened slightly.

Instantly, her body tensed.

Fear.

Automatic.

Immediate.

The reaction happened before she could stop it.

Her eyes darted toward the yellow lamp.

Still on.

Still glowing.

Still there.

Only then did her shoulders slowly relax.

The darkness hadn't won.

Not tonight.

She hated that fear.

Hated how childish it felt.

Yet no matter how many years passed...

it never truly disappeared.

Dark rooms.

Locked doors.

Voices beyond walls.

Some memories stayed longer than others.

Aira pulled the blanket closer around herself.

Trying to ignore the thoughts.

Trying not to remember.

Trying not to think.

Unfortunately...

thinking was exactly what happened when sleep refused to come.

And sleep clearly wasn't interested tonight.

A faint sigh escaped her.

Her eyes wandered once more toward the empty bed across the room.

For a second...

just one second...

she imagined Riya sitting there.

Complaining dramatically.

Demanding attention.

Refusing to let anyone be sad for too long.

The image almost made her smile.

Almost.

Then reality returned.

And the bed remained empty.

The smile disappeared before it fully formed.

Aira looked away.

The night felt endless.

Yet slowly...

very slowly...

her eyes began growing heavier.

Not because the sadness had lessened.

Not because the loneliness had disappeared.

But because exhaustion was finally catching up.

The kind of exhaustion that came after an entire day of emotions.

After panic.

After goodbyes.

After heartbreak.

After surviving.

Her grip on the letter loosened.

Her head rested lightly against the wall.

The stars blurred.

The yellow light softened.

And somewhere between wakefulness and sleep...

a calm voice crossed her mind one final time.

"Take care, Angel."

For the first time since Riya had left...

the thought didn't hurt.

It simply stayed.

Warm.

Quiet.

Gentle.

Like a light left on in a dark room.

And eventually...

without even realizing it...

Aira's eyes finally closed.

The next morning, I woke up before my alarm.

For a few seconds, I simply stared at the ceiling above me.

The room was quiet.

The city outside hadn't fully awakened yet.

Everything felt normal.

Or at least it should have.

I closed my eyes again, intending to steal a few more minutes of sleep.

Instead, a pair of frightened dark eyes appeared in my mind.

And just like that...

I was awake.

Completely awake.

I opened my eyes and sighed softly.

"Seriously?"

The question was directed at myself.

Because this made absolutely no sense.

I had met that child for what?

A few hours at most.

I didn't know her properly.

Didn't know where she came from.

Didn't know why she looked so much younger than her age.

Didn't know why a panic attack had left her trembling in the middle of a crowded road.

And yet...

there she was again.

The first thought of my morning.

I sat up slowly and reached for my phone.

5:02 AM.

Too early.

Far too early.

Normally, I would have gone back to sleep.

Today, my mind had other plans.

For some reason, I kept remembering the moment beneath the neem tree.

The tiny wave.

The hesitant trust in her eyes.

And that heartbreaking silence.

A child that young should have been loud.

Demanding.

Carefree.

Not carrying sadness like it belonged to her.

Not looking at strangers as though she was waiting for them to disappear.

I rubbed my forehead.

The headache from yesterday was completely gone.

Ironically, the thing that had caused me to stop near that road in the first place was now the only thing I wasn't thinking about.

Instead...

I found myself wondering whether she had slept properly.

Whether she was feeling better.

Whether she had eaten dinner.

The thoughts were ridiculous.

Completely unnecessary.

And yet they refused to leave.

Eventually, I gave up on sleep altogether and climbed out of bed.

The day had officially begun.

Even if my thoughts were still somewhere beneath a neem tree.

I moved through my morning routine almost entirely on autopilot.

Brush.

Coffee.

A quick shower.

A glance at the day's schedule.

Everything happened exactly as it always did.

The familiarity should have been comforting.

Instead, it felt strangely distant.

As though part of my attention was missing.

Which was ridiculous.

I had an important day ahead.

Several meetings.

Two project reviews.

A board presentation scheduled for the afternoon.

And Vikram sir would undoubtedly notice if even one detail was overlooked.

Not because he was unreasonable.

Quite the opposite.

He simply noticed things.

Far more than most people realized.

I tied my hair back, picked up my bag, and headed for the door.

The apartment felt as quiet as it had the previous night.

My parents were still away.

Which meant there was no one to remind me to eat breakfast.

No one to ask unnecessary questions.

No one to tell me that I worked too much.

The silence should have made getting ready easier.

Instead, it only gave my thoughts more room to wander.

Unfortunately, they wandered straight back to the same place.

A little girl sitting in the middle of a road.

I groaned under my breath.

"Enough."

The word echoed uselessly through the empty apartment.

Because clearly my brain had no intention of listening.

By the time I reached the parking area, Jaipur was beginning to wake properly.

Morning traffic had started building.

Street vendors were setting up their stalls.

Tea shops were filling with customers.

The city carried that familiar energy that appeared just before the rush truly began.

Usually I liked this time of day.

Today I barely noticed it.

The drive to BR Corporations took less time than usual.

Or maybe my mind was simply elsewhere.

Either way, before long, the headquarters came into view.

Even after years of working there, the sight remained difficult to ignore.

The building rose from the heart of Jaipur like a statement carved into glass and stone.

Not loud.

Not flashy.

Certain.

Across the front façade, the BR Corporations name stood in clean metallic lettering, understated yet impossible to miss.

Sisty floors of reflective glass stretched toward the morning sky, catching sunlight along sharp architectural lines that seemed almost deliberate in their precision.

Most corporate headquarters tried to impress.

This one didn't have to.

It simply existed with the quiet confidence of something that already knew its worth.

People often called it one of the most influential business headquarters in the country.

Some magazines preferred grander titles.

The Crown of Indian Corporate Architecture.

The Nerve Center of BR Global.

The Business Fortress of Rajasthan.

Personally, I thought the media enjoyed being dramatic.

But even I couldn't deny the building had a presence.

Especially because BR Corporations wasn't just another company.

It was an empire.

Thousands of employees.

International projects.

Luxury developments.

Manufacturing divisions.

Technology ventures.

Charitable foundations.

Entire industries connected through a network that expanded far beyond Rajasthan.

And this headquarters...

was where all those threads eventually met.

The security gate opened immediately as my car approached.

A familiar procedure.

One repeated so often it had become routine.

I drove through without slowing much.

The landscaped entrance curved toward the main structure, lined with carefully maintained gardens and water features that reflected the morning sunlight.

Employees were already arriving.

Luxury cars.

Company vehicles.

Executives.

Interns.

Managers.

A city within a city.

By the time I parked in my designated space and entered the building, the lobby was fully awake.

Marble floors stretched across the vast entrance hall.

Floor-to-ceiling glass allowed natural light to flood the interior.

Digital displays tracked global markets.

Reception desks operated with practiced efficiency.

People moved constantly.

Meetings.

Deadlines.

Presentations.

Negotiations.

Every floor carried its own responsibilities.

Every department its own urgency.

Normal.

Everything was normal.

Which made it even stranger that my mind wasn't.

I stepped into the private elevator reserved for senior executives.

The doors slid shut.

And silence settled instantly.

For the first time that morning, there was nothing left to distract me.

No traffic.

No conversations.

No work.

Just me.

Which, unfortunately, was proving to be a problem.

Because the moment I was alone...

my thoughts returned exactly where they weren't supposed to.

Dark eyes.

A trembling hand.

A tiny wave beneath a neem tree.

I stared at my reflection in the mirrored wall of the elevator.

Then sighed.

Apparently, I was thinking about her again.

I wasn't entirely sure when that had started becoming a problem.

Yesterday, it had made sense.

A child having a panic attack in the middle of a road wasn't exactly something a person forgot immediately.

Anyone would have been concerned.

Anyone would have wondered if she was alright.

At least, that's what I kept telling myself.

The elevator continued upward.

Smooth.

Silent.

Steady.

Floor after floor disappeared beneath me.

Yet my thoughts stubbornly refused to move on.

Had she slept last night?

The question surfaced unexpectedly.

And stayed.

I frowned.

Why was I wondering that?

There was no reason for me to care.

None.

I had met her once.

For a few hours at most.

That should have been the end of it.

Yet every time I remembered her face, I also remembered how exhausted she had looked.

How carefully she had held that letter.

How tightly she had clutched those bangles.

As if they were the only things stopping her world from falling apart.

The elevator climbed higher.

And somehow my thoughts followed the same circle again.

Had she cried after I left?

Had she eaten dinner?

Had anyone checked on her?

I closed my eyes briefly.

This was becoming ridiculous.

The elevator chimed softly.

The doors slid open.

And just like that, the moment ended.

Work came first.

It always did.

I stepped onto the executive floor.

Immediately, the familiar atmosphere surrounded me.

Quiet conversations.

Measured footsteps.

Assistants moving between offices.

Phones ringing behind closed doors.

The steady rhythm of people who understood exactly what was expected of them.

A few employees greeted me as I passed.

I returned the greetings automatically.

A nod.

A brief smile.

Nothing unusual.

Nothing that suggested my thoughts were currently occupied by an eleven-year-old girl sitting somewhere on the other side of the city.

Frankly, I was trying very hard not to acknowledge that myself.

My cabin looked exactly as I had left it the previous evening.

Every file in place.

Every document organized.

Every schedule prepared.

Predictable.

Ordered.

Reliable.

Unlike my thoughts.

I set my bag down and switched on my workstation.

The day's schedule appeared immediately.

Meetings.

Reviews.

Approvals.

Board discussions.

A full day.

Good.

Maybe work would finally force my attention where it belonged.

For the next hour, it almost did.

Emails were answered.

Reports were reviewed.

Calls were scheduled.

Documents were finalized.

Everything moved with its usual efficiency.

And slowly, my focus began returning.

At least until one particular file landed on my desk.

Employee Welfare and Outreach Programs.

I opened it.

Read the first page.

Turned to the second.

Then paused.

One section discussed funding allocations for child welfare initiatives.

Just one paragraph.

Nothing unusual.

Nothing significant.

Yet somehow—

dark eyes immediately appeared in my mind.

I stared at the page.

Then at the ceiling.

Then back at the page.

"This is getting embarrassing."

I muttered under my breath.

Unfortunately, the universe chose that exact moment to punish me.

A soft knock sounded against my cabin door.

I looked up.

One of the executive assistants stood outside.

"Ma'am?"

"Yes?"

"Mr. Deora has arrived."

I straightened automatically.

Years of habit took over instantly.

"Thank you."

The assistant nodded and left.

For a brief moment, I glanced through the glass partition overlooking the corridor.

The change was subtle.

Almost invisible.

Yet unmistakable.

Conversations became shorter.

Movements more purposeful.

The atmosphere sharpened slightly.

No announcements had been made.

None were needed.

Vikram Baldev Deora had arrived.

And somehow, people always knew.

I gathered the files required for the morning briefing and stood.

The moment I stepped into the corridor, I spotted him.

Walking toward his office.

Calm.

Composed.

Unhurried.

Two security personnel followed several steps behind.

Their presence was discreet but impossible to miss.

Employees greeted him respectfully as he passed.

He acknowledged them with brief nods.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

His attention remained fixed ahead.

As though every step had already been decided before it happened.

I had worked with him for years.

Long enough to know that authority didn't always need to be loud.

Sometimes it simply existed.

And people adjusted around it naturally.

When Vikram entered a room, the room noticed.

Not because he demanded attention.

Because attention shifted toward him anyway.

I fell into step beside him.

"Good morning, sir."

He glanced at me briefly.

"Good morning, Meera."

For several seconds, we walked in silence.

Normally, the silence would have felt completely natural.

Today...

it didn't.

Because a thought had suddenly occurred to me.

If anyone could notice I was distracted—

it would be him.

And for some reason, that realization made me significantly more nervous than it should have.

Fortunately, he didn't say anything.

Not immediately.

Which should have been reassuring.

Instead, it somehow made me more aware of myself.

We continued walking toward his office.

The corridor moved around us with its usual rhythm. Employees crossed paths carrying files and laptops. Assistants stepped in and out of cabins. Conversations remained professional, measured, brief.

Yet there was always a subtle shift whenever Vikram Baldev Deora walked through a floor.

Not fear.

Not pressure.

Awareness.

People straightened unconsciously.

Meetings became more focused.

Distractions disappeared.

Nothing dramatic.

Nothing obvious.

Just the natural effect of someone whose presence carried weight.

Within moments, we reached his office.

The door opened.

He stepped inside.

I followed.

The familiar space greeted us with its usual quiet authority.

Morning sunlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Jaipur. The city stretched endlessly beyond the glass, alive with movement and noise, while the office itself remained calm, controlled, untouched by any of it.

I placed the morning files on his desk.

"These require approval before eleven."

He nodded once.

I opened the first file.

And work began.

For a while, everything felt normal again.

Comfortingly normal.

I explained reports.

He reviewed documents.

Questions were answered.

Decisions were made.

The familiar routine settled over the room like muscle memory.

And gradually, I stopped thinking about yesterday.

Or at least I thought I had.

The illusion lasted approximately twenty minutes.

Because while reviewing one of the project summaries, I accidentally placed a document in the wrong file.

A small mistake.

An insignificant one.

But not a mistake I normally made.

I noticed it immediately and reached to correct it.

Unfortunately, so did Vikram.

His gaze shifted from the document to me.

Briefly.

Silently.

And that was somehow worse than if he had said something.

I fixed the file and continued speaking.

Pretending nothing had happened.

Pretending I hadn't noticed.

Pretending I wasn't suddenly aware of every word leaving my mouth.

The explanation finished.

The document was signed.

The next file replaced it.

Several seconds passed.

Then—

"You've been distracted since morning."

The statement arrived without accusation.

Without criticism.

Simply as an observation.

I looked up.

He had already returned his attention to the file.

As though he had merely pointed out the weather.

I considered denying it.

Briefly.

Then remembered who I was talking to.

"...Am I that obvious?"

For the first time, something that almost resembled amusement flickered across his expression.

Almost.

"To most people?"

A page turned.

"No."

Then another.

"To me?"

A pause.

"Yes."

Well.

That was unfortunate.

I looked down at the file in my hands.

Suddenly finding the text very interesting.

"You don't need to look so concerned," he said calmly.

"I'm not concerned."

The answer came too quickly.

His eyebrow lifted slightly.

I immediately regretted everything.

A faint silence settled between us.

Not awkward.

Not uncomfortable.

Just... aware.

After a moment, he signed the final page and slid the file toward me.

"If something is occupying your thoughts," he said, "either deal with it or stop thinking about it."

I stared.

"That's your advice?"

"It works."

"It sounds impossible."

"It usually isn't."

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Then sighed.

Because annoyingly enough, that sounded exactly like something he would believe.

And even more annoyingly—

part of me suspected he was right.

But admitting that felt unnecessary.

So I didn't.

Instead, I gathered the signed files and began arranging them into neat stacks.

One pile for approvals.

One for follow-up actions.

One for departments waiting on confirmation.

Simple.

Organized.

Predictable.

Much easier than sorting through my own thoughts.

The silence returned.

Comfortable.

Professional.

The kind that often filled the office when there was work to be done and no need for conversation.

A few minutes passed.

The sound of pages turning.

The quiet tap of a keyboard.

The distant hum of the building beyond the office walls.

Normal.

Everything was normal.

Which should have helped.

It didn't.

Because no matter how many documents I reviewed, a small part of my mind kept drifting elsewhere.

To a frightened girl sitting beneath a tree.

To trembling hands clutching a letter.

To eyes that looked far older than eleven.

I frowned slightly.

Then immediately returned my attention to the file in front of me.

Focus, Meera.

Work.

Not children you met once.

Not questions that weren't yours to ask.

Work.

A soft buzz from the intercom broke the silence.

The receptionist.

I reached for it automatically.

"Yes?"

A brief update followed regarding a meeting scheduled later that afternoon.

I noted the changes, adjusted the timing, and updated the digital calendar.

Routine.

Familiar.

Safe.

By the time the call ended, the interruption had helped.

A little.

At least enough for me to finish the next set of tasks without mentally wandering off every five minutes.

Progress.

Small progress.

Still progress.

Another half hour passed before I finally returned to my own cabin.

I carried the files back to my cabin.

Closed the door.

And stood there for a moment.

Quiet.

Still.

Thinking.

Find out why.

The words lingered.

Annoyingly.

Because a part of me already knew what was bothering me.

The problem was that I didn't know why it bothered me this much.

I had met children before.

Many of them.

Through charity programs.

Company initiatives.

Community projects.

I cared.

Of course I cared.

But this felt...

different.

And I didn't understand the difference.

A soft knock interrupted my thoughts.

I looked up.

One of the reception staff stood outside.

"Ma'am?"

"Yes?"

"Your ten-thirty meeting has been moved to twelve."

I checked the schedule.

She was right.

A large gap had suddenly appeared in my morning.

Nearly ninety minutes.

Unexpectedly free.

The receptionist left.

The cabin fell silent again.

My eyes drifted toward the glass wall.

Beyond it, the city stretched endlessly beneath the afternoon sun.

Busy.

Moving.

Alive.

And without warning—

an idea appeared.

Simple.

Logical.

Completely reasonable.

I could call the orphanage.

Just once.

Just to ask whether the child was okay.

That was all.

Nothing unusual about that.

Anyone would do the same.

Right?

The second that thought appeared, another part of me became suspicious.

Because that sounded dangerously similar to an excuse.

I leaned back in my chair.

Crossed my arms.

And stared at the ceiling.

"This is ridiculous."

The ceiling offered no opinion.

Extremely unhelpful.

I looked back at my desk.

At the reports waiting for review.

At the emails needing responses.

At the work that should have occupied my attention.

Instead...

my hand slowly reached for my phone.

I stopped halfway.

Stared at it.

Then pulled my hand back.

No.

Absolutely not.

I was not calling an orphanage during office hours because I couldn't stop thinking about a child.

That would be absurd.

Completely absurd.

Three minutes later, I was searching for the orphanage's contact number.

And somehow that felt even worse.

The number appeared on the screen.

I looked at it.

The number looked back.

A silent battle began.

One that I was rapidly losing.

"Just one call," I muttered.

"To check if she's okay."

A perfectly reasonable explanation.

A very professional explanation.

An explanation I was already preparing in case anyone asked.

My thumb hovered above the screen.

Then stopped again.

Because another realization had suddenly struck me.

What exactly was I supposed to say?

Hello.

Remember me?

I met one of your children yesterday.

The quiet one.

The one who somehow hasn't left my mind for twenty-four hours.

Is she okay?

I dropped my head lightly onto the back of the chair.

This was impossible.

Completely impossible.

And yet... for reasons I couldn't explain... I still wanted to know the answer.

Recess bell rang.

The sharp sound echoed through the classroom.

Almost instantly, chairs scraped against the floor.

Students rushed toward the door.

Conversations started.

Laughter followed.

Within less than a minute, most of the classroom was empty.

But Aira remained where she was.

Still sitting near the window.

Still staring at the notebook lying open in front of her.

The words written across the page blurred together.

Not because she couldn't read them.

Because her mind wasn't really there.

It hadn't been there all day.

A cool breeze slipped through the half-open window.

Moving a few loose strands of hair across her face.

Aira didn't react.

Slowly, her fingers found the pendant hidden beneath her uniform.

Holding it lightly.

The familiar metal felt cool against her skin.

Comforting.

Steady.

Unchanging.

Unlike everything else.

Her eyes drifted outside.

Students filled the playground below.

Running.

Talking.

Laughing.

Living their normal school day.

Yesterday...

Riya had still been here.

The thought arrived quietly.

And hurt immediately.

Yesterday, she had a letter she hadn't read yet.

Today, she had read it so many times that every line lived inside her head.

Yesterday, there had still been a possibility.

A chance.

A hope.

Today...

Riya was gone.

The emptiness felt heavier in daylight somehow.

A soft voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Aru didi."

Aira blinked.

Turning toward the door.

Sona stood there.

A small lunch box held carefully in both hands.

Her school uniform was slightly untidy.

As usual.

Aira watched as the younger girl immediately walked toward her.

No hesitation.

No questions.

Just concern.

The kind children showed when they cared about someone but didn't quite know how to help.

Sona stopped beside the desk.

"You didn't come outside."

Aira lowered her eyes.

Not answering.

Sona didn't seem surprised.

She rarely expected answers anymore.

Instead, she climbed onto the bench beside her.

Setting down her lunch box.

For a few seconds, neither spoke.

The classroom remained mostly empty around them.

Aira opened her own tiffin slowly.

Poha.

The same meal every orphanage child had received today.

Usually she didn't eat much.

Everyone knew that.

But today felt different.

Even the smell made her lose interest.

Sona watched carefully.

Aira picked up a spoon.

Took one bite.

Then another.

A third.

A fourth.

And stopped.

The tiffin remained almost completely full.

Sona frowned immediately.

"Aru didi."

Aira stared at the food.

Motionless.

"Eat."

Nothing.

The spoon rested quietly inside the lunch box.

Sona's frown deepened.

"You barely ate anything."

Aira lowered her gaze further.

The familiar pressure had returned to her chest.

Not panic.

Not yet.

Just sadness.

Heavy.

Persistent.

The kind that followed a person everywhere.

Without thinking, her fingers moved toward the pendant again.

Holding it tightly beneath the fabric of her uniform.

Sona noticed.

Of course she did.

She had seen Aira do that countless times.

Whenever she felt scared.

Whenever she felt upset.

Whenever emotions became too difficult to carry alone.

The younger girl shifted slightly closer.

"Aru didi..."

Her voice softened.

"Missing Riya didi?"

For a moment, Aira didn't move.

Then very slowly...

she nodded.

Once.

That's all.

Yet it was enough.

Sona's face immediately fell.

Because she missed Riya too.

The orphanage felt different without her.

Quieter.

Less alive.

But for Aira...

it was worse.

Much worse.

Riya hadn't just been another child living there.

She had been family.

And family was not easy to lose.

Especially for someone who already spent most of her life afraid people would leave.

The classroom noise drifted in from outside.

Distant.

Muted.

Unimportant.

Sona glanced at the nearly untouched tiffin again.

Then at Aira.

Then back at the tiffin.

Clearly debating whether to argue.

Eventually she sighed.

The dramatic kind of sigh only children could produce.

Making herself sound far older than she actually was.

Aira almost smiled.

Almost.

It lasted less than a second.

But Sona noticed.

And for the first time all day...

that felt like a small victory.

Outside, the lunch break continued.

Inside, two girls sat quietly beside a classroom window.

One too young to fix the sadness.

The other carrying more of it than any child should.

And somewhere beneath her uniform...

Aira's fingers remained wrapped around the pendant.

Holding onto it.

The same way she had held onto Riya's letter.

The same way she held onto memories.

As if letting go meant losing them forever.

The bell eventually rang.

Students began returning to their classrooms.

Voices filled the corridors once again.

The ordinary rhythm of another school day continued.

Slowly, Sona stood from the bench.

Aira followed a moment later.

Her lunch remained mostly untouched.

The ache inside her remained untouched too.

Some goodbyes were loud.

Filled with tears and final words.

Others arrived quietly.

Leaving behind empty spaces that nobody else could see.

As Aira walked back toward her classroom, one hand unconsciously drifted toward the pendant resting against her heart.

The familiar metal felt steady beneath her fingers.

Constant.

Reliable.

Still there.

Unlike so many other things.

And for now...

that would have to be enough.

Because sometimes healing doesn't begin with moving on.

Sometimes it begins with simply making it through the day.

One breath.

One memory.

One step at a time.

────୨ৎ────

Thank you for spending a little part of your day with Aira. 💛

This chapter was a quieter one, but sometimes the quiet chapters reveal the things that hurt the most.

I really hope you enjoyed reading it.

And since you all are experts at voting and disappearing immediately afterwards... 👀

I have a small question for you:

✨ What was your favorite moment from this chapter?

Was it:
🌷 Aira remembering Riya?
🌷 Meera being unable to stop thinking about Aira?
🌷 Sona trying to make Aru Didi eat?
🌷 Or something else entirely?

Tell me in the comments!

See you in next chapter. 🤍

Take care, stay happy, and loveeeeeeeee youuuuuuuuuuu all bahuttttttttttt saara! 🤍🌸🫂

Byeeeeeee! 🤍✨

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧🩷˚.🎀༘⋆

RADHE KRISHNA🌷**