Raunaksh stepped out, the door clicking shut behind him with deliberate precision-a silent end to a conversation that lingered like an unfinished melody.

Yashwardhan's words clung to him, a whisper against his skin, but he exhaled sharply, forcing them away.

There was no room for echoes of the past. Not today.

Just then, the steady rhythm of the corridor was broken.

Captain Raghav and Aaditya strode toward him, their usual air of composure stripped away, replaced by something rare-panic.

Raunaksh stilled.

It took a great force to unnerve men like them. And that force was rarely kind.

"Sir... you need to see this."

The weight in his assistant's voice sent a ripple through Raunaksh's chest-an instinctive tightening, a silent bracing for impact.

His frown deepened, but he didn't ask.

Instead, his gaze followed theirs, drawn to the television screen in the hallway.

The flickering images played with cruel deliberation-blurring, sharpening, bleeding into one another.

And then, the words cut through the static.

"A tragic accident occurred on the Srinagar highway-"

The voice of the news anchor faded into an eerie hum.

The screen showed fire. Twisted metal. Shadows of a tragedy that had already unfolded.

A truck stood still, like an executioner who had already swung its axe.

"-Aayat Bhat and Veer Rajwar... lost their lives in a collision-"

Something inside him stilled. Not shock, not grief-just silence, vast and consuming.

The world around him blurred, yet every detail sharpened with cruel precision-the flickering glow of the screen, the sharp inhale of Aditya, the distant honk of a car outside.

Aayat. Veer.

Gone.

His breath came slow, measured, but the air felt thick, suffocating. The weight of something inevitable, something irreversible, pressed against his chest.

And then-footsteps.

Steady. Heavy.

Yashwardhan Rathore emerged from his study.

The moment his gaze landed on the screen, the breath left his body.

Raunaksh saw it-saw the moment Yashwardhan's breath hitched, the way his fingers curled around the doorframe, white-knuckled, as if it was the only thing keeping him upright.

For a man who had endured political wars, betrayals, and bloodshed, it wasn't a bullet or a coup that finally broke him.

It was a name.

His son's name.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, before his body betrayed him. His knees faltered, just slightly-just enough for Raunaksh to notice. His grip tightened against the frame, his chest rising in sharp, uneven breaths. The weight of grief settled over him, pressing into his skin, his bones.

But Yashwardhan Rathore did not fall. He did not allow himself that weakness.

He swallowed, though his throat convulsed around the effort, and when he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse

-like something had clawed through it, leaving only ruin in its wake.

"Captain..." The word scraped against the heavy air. "Collect the bodies."

Raunaksh's jaw locked, the muscle ticking beneath his skin.

His fists curled so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, sharp enough to draw blood-sharp enough to remind him that this was real.

The world outside remained mercilessly unchanged-news anchors droned on, security murmured in hushed voices, phones rang, the city moved.

But within him, something had cracked wide open, and in that hollow space, time ceased to exist.

Veer.

His nephew. His blood. Now nothing more than a name swallowed by breaking news, another casualty in the cruel, unyielding game of fate.

________________________

Somewhere, in the sterile chill of a hospital room, a child lay waiting.

Tiny fingers curled in the air, reaching-searching-for hands that would never hold him again.

And outside, amidst the whispers of loss, a storm had already begun to rise.

The bell rang, signaling the lunch break, but Meher didn't move.

The sound barely registered, distant and hollow, like something echoing from another lifetime.

Her fingers traced the edges of the exam papers on her desk, but the words were nothing more than smudges of ink-meaningless, empty.

They slipped through her mind like water through trembling hands.

Somewhere outside, the world continued. Laughter in the corridors. Footsteps against tiled floors. Life, moving forward.

But inside her, something stirred. A quiet unease. A weight pressing against her ribs.

Then, her phone buzzed.

A single vibration, sharp and intrusive, cutting through the fog in her mind.

Meher straightened, the air around her turning thick, suffocating.

She had heard Roshni's voice in a thousand different ways-laughing, teasing, even scolding. But never like this.

Never so careful. Never so unsteady.

Her grip on the phone tightened. "What happened?"

A pause. A silence so heavy it pressed against her ribs.

Then, a breath. And two words that shattered everything.

"It's Aayat."

This is already powerful, but let's make it more poetic and emotionally gripping.

The world blurred-spinning, dissolving-collapsing into a void of silence.

Meher's breath faltered, her chest caving under the weight of something unspeakable.

Her fingers clenched around the phone, knuckles white, as if holding on could stop everything from slipping away.

"No." A whisper. A plea. A desperate denial.

On the other end, Roshni exhaled shakily, her voice barely holding together. "There was an accident, Meher. She and Veer-"

The words shattered like glass.

"No!" Meher gasped, as if the force of the truth had punched the air from her lungs.

The sound tore from her throat-raw, ragged, a wound splitting open.

"She promised-she promised! She said she'd come back! She wouldn't-she wouldn't-"

But promises were only words. And words had no power against fate.

She pushed away from her desk so fast that her chair scraped against the floor.

The classroom door slammed open as she ran, ignoring the confused voices of students, the calls of her colleagues.

Meher stumbled toward the car, her pulse a frenzied drum against her ribs.

The world had tilted-spun into something unfamiliar, something wrong.

Her fingers trembled as she fumbled with the keys, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

She slid into the driver's seat, gripping the steering wheel as if it could anchor her. But the moment her hands closed around it, her body refused to move.

Her fingers wouldn't turn the key.

Her foot wouldn't press the pedal.

Nothing obeyed her.

The silence inside the car was suffocating, pressing against her chest like unseen hands. The echoes of Roshni's voice still rang in her ears, cruel and unrelenting-

"There was an accident. She and Veer-"

No.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force air into her lungs.

The walls of her mind were closing in, crushing her beneath the weight of something unbearable.

Then, as if her body could no longer contain it, the dam broke.

A sob wrenched through her-violent, shattering.

She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders trembling, the fabric of her dupatta soaking the tears spilling recklessly down her cheeks.

And then-

The past came rushing in.

A different night. A different kind of grief.

The first time Aayat had left her.

The house smelled like dinner-warm spices, fresh chapatis cooling on the plate. Meher had barely set her school bag down when she noticed it.

Something was missing.

No laughter. No teasing voice calling her name. No sound of bangles jingling as Aayat moved around the house.

Frowning, she walked in, her fingers still dusted with the chalk from her last class.

"Baba?"

Her father sat in his chair, rigid as stone, his eyes fixed on something distant-something unreachable.

In front of him, Roshni's grandmother sat with her hands folded in her lap, her face weighed down with something Meher couldn't name yet.

Her pulse stuttered.

"Where's Aayat?" she asked, her voice small.

Silence.

She stepped closer. "Baba, where is she?"

Nothing.

Her father's fingers tightened around the armrest. His jaw clenched, but no words came.

The weight in her chest swelled, pressing against her ribs, her throat. The air suddenly felt too thick, too heavy.

Then, in a voice soft yet unbearably firm, Roshni's grandmother spoke:

"She's gone, beta."

The words slammed into her, knocking the breath from her lungs.

"No."

She shook her head. The room swayed. "You're lying."

No one corrected her.

"Baba!" Desperation clawed its way into her voice as she turned to him, pleading. "Say something! Call her! Bring her back!"

He didn't look at her.

Didn't even flinch.

A horrible, splintering crack echoed in her chest.

But then-

Omkar stood. His presence filled the room, rigid as steel. When he spoke, his voice lashed through the silence like a whip.

"She is dead to this house."

Meher's breath hitched. "How-how can you say that?"

He turned to her, his eyes dark with something cold, something immovable. "She didn't just choose that boy over me. She chose him over my values. Over my rules."

His voice shook with fury, with a conviction that chilled her to the bone. "She didn't betray me, Meher. She betrayed everything I raised her to be."

Meher flinched as if struck. "And what were we raised to be, Baba?" she asked, her voice hoarse. "Obedient? Caged? Puppets who follow your rules even when they break us?"

His jaw tightened. "I gave her a life of dignity. A name. A home. And she threw it away for a man who could give her none of those things!"

"No," Meher whispered, fists clenching at her sides. "She threw it away because she wanted to live, Baba. Because she wanted to love."

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Love?" He let out a hollow laugh. "Love means nothing without duty. Without honor."

"Then what does duty mean without love?" Meher shot back. "Without kindness? Without family?" Her voice cracked, the grief in her chest clawing its way to the surface. "You talk about dignity, but what dignity is there in throwing your own daughter away?"

Silence.

Omkar's nostrils flared, but for the first time, his eyes wavered-just for a second.

Meher took a shuddering breath. "If there's no place for Aayat in this house," she whispered, voice shaking, "then there's no place for me either."

She spun toward the door, her heart pounding in her ears. Her feet moved without thought, without care-

Then-

A scream.

"Omkar!"

Meher's world lurched.

She turned just in time to see her father slump against the rocking chair, his hand clutching his chest, his face twisted in agony.

"Baba!"

She ran to him, her hands shaking as she gripped his shoulders, trying to wake him, trying to hold him, trying to undo everything that had already unraveled.

Babai rushed forward, pressing a firm hand to his shoulder. "Go to your room," she told him urgently. "Think of your condition."

Meher froze. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts. "Condition?"

The old woman hesitated.

Meher's fingers dug into the fabric of her salwar. " Babai . What condition?"

A long pause. Then, with a sigh, the truth slipped free.

"His heart is weak."

A sharp, bitter laugh escaped Meher before she could stop it.

"Weak?" she whispered. The word tasted foreign on her tongue, laced with something close to disbelief. "No. That can't be true."

She looked at her father-the same man who had banished Aayat without a second thought, the same man who had stood so tall, so unyielding.

How could a heart so merciless be weak?

How could a heart that cast out its own daughter so easily falter now?

Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away.

There was nothing left to say.

A sharp knock on the car window yanked her back to the present.

Meher gasped, sucking in a breath so sharp it burned. The weight of grief pressed down on her chest, but the moment she turned, she saw Roshni through the glass.

She wasn't alone.

She had never been.

With trembling fingers, she unlocked the door.

And then, without a word, Roshni climbed into the passenger seat and took her hand.

And Meher let herself fall.

---The drive was a blur.

The road stretched endlessly, each second stretching like a lifetime. Roshni sat beside her, silent but steady, her presence the only thing keeping Meher from shattering completely.

The hospital came into view.

And so did the crowd.

Cameras. Reporters. Strangers murmuring in hushed voices.

The moment she stepped out of the car, flashes blinded her.

"Ms. Bhat, any comments on your sister's tragic accident?"

"Do you think this was politically motivated?"

"Who will take custody of the child?"

The words crashed into her, meaningless in the wake of her grief.

She shoved past them.

The hospital doors loomed ahead, too far, too close-her feet moved faster.

She burst through the entrance, her pulse roaring in her ears.

Straight to the reception desk.

"Aayat Bhat. Veer Rajwar," she gasped, slamming her palms down. "Where are they?"

The receptionist hesitated. "Madam, we can't disclose-"

"They're my family!" Her voice cracked. "Tell me where my sister is!"

The nurse exchanged a helpless glance with her colleague, lips pressing into a thin line.

And then-

The air shifted.

The world stilled.

A sound cut through the air, silencing her anger. A cry. Small, broken, desperate. The wail of a baby who only wanted to be held.

Her breath hitched.

The argument forgotten, her feet moved before her mind could catch up, drawn toward the fragile, aching sound.

Step by step, she followed it down the dimly lit corridor, past the muted murmurs of grief-stricken families and the antiseptic sterility of the hospital walls. And then-she saw him.

Through the glass partition, in a cot too big for his tiny form, lay Aaryan. His face, contorted in distress, was flushed with tears.

So small. So heartbreakingly alone in this world of chaos.

Her heart clenched as recognition settled deep in her chest. She had seen him only in photographs, in hurriedly scribbled notes from Aayat.

But here he was, real and fragile, a piece of her lost sister left behind.

She took a step closer, pressing her palm against the glass as if she could reach through and soothe him.

But she wasn't alone.

On the other side of the glass, another presence loomed. Unmoving. Silent.

Raunaksh Rajwar.

His broad shoulders were squared, his stance rigid, his gaze fixed on the child. But it wasn't just a look-it was a vow.

The weight of an unspoken promise bled from his dark, unwavering stare. This child, this new duty, would be his to protect. At any cost.

And then, as if pulled by an unseen force, their eyes drifted. Locked.

Time fractured. The air thinned between them.

Meher inhaled sharply, struck by the collision of his presence. His eyes, intense and unreadable, carried the weight of wars fought and battles yet to come. He was cold, calculating-an unmovable force. But beneath the steel, she saw it. The same grief. The same loss. The same unbearable weight pressing down on them both.

She should have looked away. He should have turned first. But neither moved.

A sudden gust of wind from the hallway lifted the ends of Meher's dupatta, the pale fabric fluttering like a whisper of fate between them. And just for a second-just long enough to be dangerous-Raunaksh's gaze flickered. A fracture in the ice. A hesitation, a recognition, a question neither of them dared voice.

Then, as if sensing the weight of his own betrayal to himself, his expression hardened. The iron walls slammed shut. He turned away, severing the moment like a blade through silk.

But the damage had been done.

For in that fleeting, breathless instant, something had shifted in the air between them

. A thread had been spun, invisible yet unbreakable, weaving their fates tighter than either of them had ever intended.

-----------------------------------

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