Author's POV

It was morning. Saaisha stepped out of her room, ready to head downstairs, when a voice gently stopped her in her tracks.

“Lotus,” Shaurya called.

She turned to find him standing there, a calm intensity in his eyes.

He walked over and handed her the stack of paintings.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

She gave a small nod, watching as he turned and walked away.

But the moment her eyes dropped to the paintings in her hands, she froze.

Her lips parted slightly, and her fingers tightened around the edges.

Something was different.

Confusion flickered across her face.

Without a word, she turned back and quietly stepped into her room.

She sat on the edge of the bed, still holding the sheets, now with a mix of shock and something unspoken stirring in her chest.

And slowly, she began to go through them again…

Saaisha’s POV

I don’t know what I expected when I unfolded the paintings. Maybe indifference. Maybe mockery. But not this.

Not this kind of quiet understanding that pricks your soul like a needle.

I sat on the edge of the bed, eyes wide with disbelief as my fingers trembled, clutching the sheets. These were my paintings but not the way I had left them.

He had touched them. Changed them. Not defaced… transformed.

The first sheet

The one that once stared back like an abyss, a void without end—now held a single image.

A white lotus.

Not in full bloom. Not yet.

But it was rising… pushing through the black like a soft defiance.

Hope.

Stubborn.

Quiet.

Refusing to die.

A whisper in the silence:

“Even in filth, even in shadows… beauty can still be born.”

My fingers reached out, brushing the lines like they were sacred.

I turned the page.
Second sheet

The heart that once lay lifeless—stabbed and screaming—was now bandaged. Its cracks stitched, and from those wounds, tiny flowers bloomed.

Bruised… but beating.

Shattered… but not surrendered.

The canvas didn’t lie. It murmured:

“If I’m broken, let me try again. Let me live.”

A breath escaped me—soft, unsteady.

The next painting
Third one

The girl with her back turned, once scarred and lashed into silence—was no longer a portrait of torment.

Her scars had turned into stars.

A constellation across her spine.

Her pain… had become a galaxy.

And over her shoulders, two fragile wings—damaged, still incomplete—were being sewn together by her own hands.

Delicate. Determined.

And just beneath the wings, in soft, aching ink:

“It’s okay if I fall. I’ll mend myself. I’ll rise again.”

A smile bloomed on my lips.

Not a loud one.

Just... soft.

Startled.

The kind that escapes when something unexpected wraps around your heart.

But then

The next painting.

The girl pinned beneath too many hands, her eyes begging for mercy…

Unchanged.

Still suffocating.

Still pleading.

Still raw.

My smile faltered.

The final sheet

The one of the broken girl, curled in on herself, bruised and bare—was untouched too. Still naked in her agony.

My fingers paused mid-turn.

A quiet protest rose in my chest, bitter on my tongue.

Why?

Why didn’t he change these?

But then—

A final paper. Folded.

Words written. Not painted.

 “I know you must be wondering why I didn’t change those last two paintings.

Because they’re not mine to change. They’re yours.

Healing doesn’t move in a straight line, Lotus. It moves with you.

Main pehla qadam le chuka hoon, Lotus… ab agla qadam aapko lena hoga.

Jab tak aap taiyar nahi hote, koi bhi aapko us andhere se bahar nahi nikaal sakta.

Main rasta dikha sakta hoon, lekin chalna aap ko hoga.

Rehnuma ban sakta hoon… lekin raahi nahi.

Main marham laa sakta hoon… lekin lagana aapko hoga.

Aapke nishaan aapki taqdeer nahi likhenge, Lotus…

Aap unhi nishano mein apni nayi taqdeer likhte hain.

Kahani wahi nahi hoti jo likhi gayi ho…

Kahani wahi hoti hai jo samjhi jaye, mehsoos ki jaye, aur dobara likhi jaye.”

(I’ve taken the first step, Lotus… now the next must come from you.
Until you’re ready, no one can truly pull you out of the darkness.
I can show you the path… but only you can walk it.
I can be your guide… but not your savior.
I can bring the balm… but only you can press it to your wounds.
Your scars don’t have to write your fate…
You can write a new one within those same scars.
The story isn’t what was written. It’s what is felt, understood, and rewritten.)

And just like that... all my questions dissolved.

All my complaints died.

I looked back at the altered paintings again— they weren’t perfect.

But they didn’t need to be.

They were real.

Every line screamed of effort.

Every brushstroke carried a heartbeat.

He didn’t fix me.

He didn’t try to save me.

He just sat beside my darkness... and painted with me.

Who is he?

That question kept echoing through my chest.

Is he real?

How can someone... someone I barely know see me like this?

He saved my life. That should’ve been enough.

But he didn’t stop there.

He gave me a home.

He gave me silence when I needed it.

Space when I couldn’t breathe.

Time when I couldn’t understand.

And patience when I didn’t deserve it.

I had thrown my anger at him. My hate.

Not because of who he was but because of what others had been.

I punished him for the sins of monsters.

And yet… he stood still.

He stayed.

Maybe… just maybe…

Not all men destroy.

Some protect.

Some shield.

Some listen—not to reply, not to fix but to understand.

I asked myself yesterday

Can I trust men again?

I don’t know.

But I know this much—

I can trust him.

Author's POV

Shaurya sat in his home office, the air around him calm yet heavy. Across from him, Ryan leaned back in his chair, his usual sharp eyes observing. Siya sat quietly on the nearby sofa, focused on her laptop, her fingers dancing swiftly over the keyboard.

Veer couldn’t hold back the concern brewing in his chest any longer. He looked at Shaurya—really looked at him and finally spoke.

“What's going on, Shaurya?”

Shaurya glanced up, his expression unreadable. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Veer hesitated, searching for the right words, “why do you care so much about her? Giving her shelter—I get it. That’s who you are. But filling her wardrobe with all shades of white because she doesn't want to wear anything else? Painting for her when you hate art? Last I remember, you sulk at the sight of a brush.”

His voice softened as he continued, “We've helped so many others before fought for them, delivered justice. But this… this is different. You're different. If she holds a special place in your heart, just say it. I swear, I’ll be the happiest one to see my friend finally moving on.”

Shaurya remained still. Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face at first, just silence. Then, with a calm breath, he answered.

“Because she’s not like anyone we've saved before.”

Veer blinked. “How?”

Shaurya’s jaw tightened. When he spoke again, his voice was low but steady each word soaked in emotion.

“Because I didn’t find the others lying naked in a forest, begging to die. I didn’t have to carry their broken bodies in my arms, feeling the weight of a soul that wanted nothing but release from pain.”

He looked down for a second before continuing.

“Because none of them endured hell and still kept their silence. Saaisha hasn’t cried. She hasn’t complained. Not even once. Do you know what kind of strength that takes?”

He leaned forward slightly.

“She lost her family. Her home. The only thing she thought she had left was her dignity and now she believes even that was stolen. But I want her to know it wasn’t. Because dignity isn’t something others can take from you. It’s something you choose to hold on to. And she is not broken. She is a survivor. A warrior, even if she doesn’t see it yet.”

He paused, letting his words settle before adding, “I’m not saying the others deserved less empathy. Not at all. But they were failed by this system—by people. We knew who hurt them. We had a face to blame. But with her… she was failed by fate itself. She was abandoned not just by the world… but by herself.”

Veer sat in silence, the weight of Shaurya’s words hanging between them.

“I found her when she had already given up. She didn’t just stop believing in people—she stopped believing in herself. And until she finds that faith again, I’ll do whatever it takes. If that means filling her wardrobe with whites, I will. If that means painting when I hate painting, I’ll do it. I’ll take her glares, her silence, her anger… even her curse and slaps, if I must. Because what matters is that she sees a man who won’t hurt her.”

He looked directly at Veer now.

“She needs to believe that not all men destroy. Some protect. Some listen without judgment. And if I can be that for her, even for a while… then it's worth everything.”

Veer swallowed hard. “And what if, after justice is served—after she heals—she wants to leave? Will you let her go?”

Shaurya didn’t flinch. “Of course. Who am I to stop her? Once she’s whole again, she’s free to choose her path. That’s the entire point of healing—to give her back her choices.”

Veer leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He knew what Shaurya was saying made sense, but still, a part of him ached for his friend, for the man who always gave everything but never asked for anything in return.

Ryan leaned closer to Veer and whispered under his breath, “Jab tak yeh diary aur yeh purana landline phone is desk par padhe hain… tab tak yeh abhi bhi usi jagah atka hua hai.”

(As long as that diary and old landline phone are still on his desk… it means he’s still stuck in that place.)

Veer glanced at the desk, his eyes lingering on the old phone that hadn’t rung in years. He shook his head slowly, but said nothing.

Shaurya had heard Ryan’s whisper. His eyes briefly flicked toward the phone, then back down to his desk. He didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.

Some wounds don’t bleed on the surface but they never really stop aching.

A soft knock echoed through the room.

“The door is open,” Shaurya said, his tone calm but alert, eyes still scanning the papers on his desk.

The door creaked slightly... then opened wider.

And there she stood.

Saaisha.

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