Author's POV

The first light of dawn filtered gently through the curtains, casting soft golden hues across the room.

Shaurya stirred, his lashes fluttering open as sunlight kissed his face. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep—but somewhere in the silence of the night, exhaustion had crept in, claiming him where he sat curled awkwardly in the armchair near the balcony.

His eyes instinctively shifted to the bed.

There she was.

Lotus.

Still wrapped in the blanket, her breathing even, her face no longer twisted by fear but softened by something unfamiliar—peace.

Careful not to wake her, Shaurya rose, barefoot steps silent against the floor.

He made his way to the private gym. The rhythmic clang of weights, the burn in his muscles, and the focus of steady breaths helped quiet the unrest in his mind. When done, he stepped into a cold shower, letting it wash away the remnants of restless sleep.

Back in his room, he stared into the wardrobe. Rows of black suits lined the space—his armor for politics, for the man the world saw.

But her voice lingered in his mind—“You wear too much black to be a politician.”

A faint chuckled escaped his lips.

He reached past the familiar and pulled out a soft brown kurta, letting it slide over his shoulders like ease itself.

His phone buzzed.

"Hello, Wasim," he answered, rubbing the towel through his damp hair. "Kya baat hai, itni subah call kiya?"
(What's the matter? You called so early in the morning.)

A pause. His expression hardened.

"Okay. I’ll handle him."

The call ended, and a shadow flickered across his face.

"Kuch laaton ke bhoot baaton se nahi mante," he muttered, voice low and dangerous.
(Some ghosts only respond to kicks, not words.)

Meanwhile…

In the warm heart of the house—the kitchen—Meera peeling mangoes, humming softly to herself when she sensed a presence.

Turning, she found the girl standing there. Quiet. Still. Like a question waiting to be asked.

“Kya hua, beta? Kuch chahiye?” Meera asked gently, wiping her hands.
(What happened, my child? Do you want anything?)

The girl shook her head and held out her notepad.

"Can I help you?"

Meera’s heart swelled at the simple offer. “Of course, beta. You know how to cook?”

A nod.

“Ok, come then. I’m making aam ras puri today. Siya loves mangoes. Do you?”

Another nod.

As they moved in silent coordination—kneading, frying, grinding—Meera asked another question.

"Do you love doing something specific?"

This time, the girl paused. Then wrote:

"I love baking".

“You’ll spoil me with sweets now.”Meera laughed warmly

The girl smiled. Not a full one, but the kind that lingers in the eyes.

And so, in a kitchen filled with mango-sweetened air, two women bonded, sharing their moment of joy.

By breakfast, the dining table brimmed with warmth—plates of food, bursts of laughter, the morning sun catching the edge of glasses and smiles.

Siya bounced in. “Oh my God! Aam ras puri! Love you, Mumma!”

Meera grinned. “Your Dove helped me.”

“Aww… Dove, I love you!” Siya exclaimed, wrapping her arms around the girl, who offered a soft, shy smile in return.

“You know I love mangoes,” Siya continued, mid-bite. “What’s your favorite fruit?”

The girl paused, then scribbled: Strawberries.

“Not fair,” Siya pouted. “Their season’s over!”

Their giggles filled the air, but the men at the table remained quiet, watching with a kind of reverence. Rajveer’s smile was small, but full.

When breakfast neared its end, Rajveer cleared his throat gently.

“Beta, suno.”
(Listen)

She looked up, cautious.

He pushed a box toward her—inside, a brand-new phone and a sleek laptop. “For you. I noticed you don’t have one… thought this might help. So you don’t feel… alone.”

The girl’s expression shifted—startled, unsure. She pushed the box gently back, fingers trembling.

She wrote quickly: "I’m sorry. I can’t take this. You’re already doing so much. I don’t want to take advantage."

Rajveer’s voice turned softer, steadier. “Beta… tum meri beti ki tarah ho. Jaise Siya meri bachi hai, waise hi tum bhi. Sochna ke tumhare papa de rahe ho kuch… mana mat karo.”
(you are like my daughter. Just like Siya is my child, so are you. Think of it as your father giving you something… don’t refuse.)

After listening this she looked down, fingers curling into each other as sweat beat started forming on her forehead . The room went still.

Meera reached out, placing a hand over hers. Siya followed. Silent, supportive.

Her gaze moved across their faces—one by one—and finally landed on Rajveer. Something in his eyes… steady, unwavering.

With a deep breath, she reached forward and took the phone and laptop, her hands trembling.

She scribbled:

"Thank you…."

Rajveer’s smile was soft and proud. “Welcome, beta.”
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Shaurya’s POV

I know my father has always had a soft spot for daughters—not that I’m complaining. Every father does.

But this… this is different. I can see it clearly now—my parents are already emotionally attached to her. And I get it. That wound from the past… it still haunts them. They see her in Lotus. The girl we lost. The silence, the fear, the unspoken pain—it's all too familiar.

something else kept tugging at me. A small detail.I needed answers.

And I knew exactly who could give them.

I stepped out of my room, just as Siya emerged from hers, tying her hair up into a messy bun.

“Siya, listen.”

She paused, turned toward me with a bright smile. “Yes, bhai?”

“I want to ask you something.”

“Of course. Tell me.”

“You bought clothes for her, right?”

“Yes, bhai,” she said, nodding. “Why? Is there any problem?”

“No,” I replied quickly. “No problem. Just… I noticed something.”

She looked at me, waiting.

“Why does she only wear white?” I asked. “You didn’t just buy white for her, right?”

Siya’s smile faded into something softer, more thoughtful. She shook her head. “Of course not. I bought all kinds of colours—pastels, soft prints, warm tones. But she... she said she doesn’t like wearing colours.”

“She said that?” I asked, frowning slightly.

She nodded, eyes distant. “Yeah. I asked her too. She just said... she doesn’t feel like it.”

“O..Ok” Just one word, but it felt heavier than I expected.

White.
Not just a color.
A choice.
A wall.
A wound.

She wasn’t just picking white because she liked it—it was her silence stitched into fabric. Her pain, wrapped around her like armor.

And then something clicked.

Yes... I’ve got two things to do now.

A plan started forming. Simple. Subtle. But necessary.

“Siya,” I called again before she walked off.

She turned back. “Yes?”

“Where were you going?”

“Nowhere, bhai… just going to watch a movie with Dove.”

“You’re watching in your room, right?”

She blinked, confused. “Yes, bhai. Where else?”

I nodded. “Okay. You can go.”

She left. And now, so would I.

Because I knew what I had to do.

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