One week after the documentary submission, Meera found herself in the attic of the cottage, looking for old photos.
Aarav's laugh used to echo in this attic, mostly when he hit his head on the low ceiling beams or found random treasures from the previous owners: a broken typewriter, a rusted music box, and once, a pair of winter boots two sizes too small he insisted were "charmingly cursed."
Today, though, the attic was quieter. The dust had settled thick across old trunks. The air smelled of cedar and memory.
Meera wasn't sure what she was looking for exactly—maybe closure, maybe nostalgia, maybe something that would help her write the final chapter of the book.
Instead, she found a loose floorboard.
It was near the far corner, hidden behind a moth-eaten sheet draped over a forgotten chair. One plank stood ever so slightly raised compared to the others.
At first, she thought nothing of it. But when she stepped on it, it didn't creak—it clicked. A hollow sound.
Her heart stirred. A whisper in her chest.
Carefully, she knelt down and pried it up.
Beneath it lay a small, dusty metal box. About the size of a shoebox. Heavy. Locked with a simple latch.
She hesitated.
Then opened it.
Inside were neatly folded papers, a small velvet pouch, and a worn-out envelope with her name on it.
Her full name. "To Meera Sharma, When You're Ready."
She stared at the envelope for a long moment, her hands trembling.
This wasn't the same handwriting from the other letters. This was older—shaky, less confident.
It was written when he was already dying.
Heart racing, she unfolded the letter.
"My Meera,
If you're reading this, you've lived longer than I did. And that alone is enough for me to thank you.
There's something I never told you. Not because I didn't trust you—but because I didn't know how to. I was afraid it would change the way you looked at me, or worse, how you looked at yourself.
But now that I'm gone, maybe the truth is safer in your hands.
You weren't the only one who saved me, Meera.
You weren't the only one who loved with impossible strength.
There's something about your family... about your past. Something you don't know yet.
It's in the documents below.
Please forgive me. And please… be gentle with yourself when you find out.
— Aarav"*
Meera read it three times, her eyes widening with each line.
What truth?
What did he mean—about her past?
Hands still shaking, she unfolded the stack of papers beneath the letter.
The first was a birth certificate.
But it wasn't hers.
It belonged to a child born in 1995—two years before Meera.
The name on the certificate:
Aarav Sharma.
Father: Devansh Sharma Mother: Aparna Sharma
Her mother's name.
Her exact mother's name.
"No," Meera whispered, shaking her head.
She flipped through the rest of the documents. Adoption forms. A hospital record. Letters from a child services agency. A family court summary.
Each page slowly pieced together a stunning truth that hit her like thunder:
Aarav was her half-brother.
The room seemed to spin.
She stumbled back from the trunk, air caught in her throat, heart hammering.
No. This couldn't be. They weren't… no.
But the documents didn't lie.
Before Meera was born, her mother had a child she gave up for adoption. A child she never spoke of. A secret buried in the past.
Aarav had found out.
He had known.
And he hadn't told her.
Meera dropped the papers and backed away from the box like it had burned her.
Her chest heaved. Her hands covered her mouth as the pieces locked together. The odd coincidences. The shared mannerisms. The way he once joked, "You remind me of someone I used to dream about before I even met you."
They had met as strangers.
Fallen in love as strangers.
But blood had quietly, horrifyingly, linked them all along.
She ran outside. Snow bit into her skin, but she didn't stop. She ran to the cedar tree. Dropped to her knees.
Screamed.
A sound not of sorrow, but of something unnameable. A grief twisted with betrayal, confusion, and rage.
"Why didn't you TELL ME?" she screamed into the sky. "You let me love you like that! You let me—"
She stopped. Choked. Gasped.
The answer was already in her hands.
He hadn't told her because he didn't want to ruin the one pure thing in their lives.
Because what they had was real—even if fate had stained it with something unbearable.
Because love, when it's that deep, doesn't always check ancestry.
Because Aarav had died loving her. Not as a sister. Not as a mistake.
But as the one person who made life worth living—even if that life had come from a truth too complex for words.
That night, Meera lit no candles.
She said no prayers.
She lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, the letter on her chest, and whispered only one thing:
"I don't know who I am anymore."
But in the quiet that followed, a thought came:
Maybe love doesn't ask for understanding.
Maybe it simply exists. Then shatters. Then survives— in the wreckage.
To be continued…