It had been five days since the documentary went live.
Meera had expected backlash—maybe even rage. What she hadn't expected was silence from some of the people who mattered most.
Her editor didn't call.
Her publisher emailed only to say, "Let's postpone the memoir until this settles."
And her mother—Aparna Sharma—had yet to respond at all.
Meera sat by the window, watching crows dart across the grey sky.
She had spent her life telling other people's stories, editing footage and words until they fit a shape the world could tolerate. Now, the story was her own. Untamed. Uncomfortable. Impossible to look away from.
And still, somehow, beautifully hers.
But the silence pressed in like fog.
She checked her inbox again.
No message from her mother.
No message from Aarav's adoptive family either.
Only one new unread subject line stood out from an unfamiliar email address:
"You don't know the full story."
She hesitated before clicking.
The sender's name was: Samar R.
The message was short. Almost clinical.
Subject: About Aarav
Body:
Meera,
I watched the documentary. I think it's time we talk.
Aarav left behind more than just letters.
He left behind me.
—Samar
There was a number attached. Delhi-based.
Meera stared at the screen, heart beginning to thunder again.
Who was this? Someone from Aarav's past? A friend? An ex?
Or worse…
She didn't call. Not yet.
Instead, she opened the velvet pouch she'd found in the attic box. She hadn't looked inside it yet.
Inside was a delicate silver chain—a necklace Aarav used to wear, the one he had stopped wearing six months before he died. He once told her, "I don't need a charm when I have you."
Attached to the chain was a tiny USB drive.
Meera's fingers clenched.
She plugged it into her laptop.
A single video file blinked on the screen.
"Final Confession - For Meera.mp4"
She clicked play.
Aarav appeared on screen—frail, his eyes darker than she remembered, his voice rougher but still warm.
"Hey you."
"If you're watching this, I'm not around anymore." "Not in the way I used to be."
"I don't know if you've forgiven me. For loving you without telling you the whole truth. For hiding the one thing that could've ended us."
"But I need to explain why I couldn't tell you."
"It wasn't just that I found out late." "It was because… I wasn't sure it was even true."
"I found those adoption papers, yes. But I also found something else."
"A second file. A second DNA result."
"One that said we weren't related at all."
Meera gasped aloud.
What?
"I know, it doesn't make sense." "That's why I never brought it up. One test said yes, one said no." "So I went looking for answers. And that's how I found Samar."
"Samar was my biological half-brother. He knew my birth mother. He told me things that didn't line up with the court documents."
"And now I don't even know if the adoption files were real. Or planted. Or altered."
"All I know is, I loved you. With every version of the truth."
"And I was terrified that one version might end us."
The screen faded to black.
Meera sat frozen.
Two tests. Two outcomes. One life—and now, two truths.
She closed her eyes.
Could it be? Was it possible… they weren't related at all?
Suddenly, the message from Samar made more sense.
He was the missing piece in a puzzle Aarav died trying to solve.
Meera didn't hesitate now.
She picked up her phone.
Dialed.
The voice that answered was low and steady. "Hello?"
"Samar?" she asked.
A pause.
"Yes."
"This is Meera."
Another silence.
Then:
"I've been waiting for your call."
They met two days later at a quiet café in Delhi.
Samar was older than Aarav by a few years. Stern, but kind. He looked like Aarav in a sideways kind of way—same jawline, same tilt of the head when listening.
He placed a file on the table.
Inside were pages of communication with hospitals, courts, and an independent testing lab.
Samar spoke calmly as Meera skimmed through them.
"The court records in Aarav's adoption were altered," he said.
"Altered?" she whispered.
He nodded. "To cover up an illegal handoff. Aarav's biological mother was underaged and forced into signing the adoption under pressure. Her identity was switched with someone else's on record. The 'Aparna Sharma' you saw isn't your mother. It's a different woman."
Meera blinked.
"But… the name…?"
"A coincidence," Samar said gently. "Or maybe just a cruel twist."
She sank into the chair, stunned.
"So… Aarav and I… weren't—?"
"No. You weren't related."
A breath left her chest so violently it made her dizzy.
Not related.
Not siblings.
Not taboo.
Just two strangers who found each other. Fell in love. Got caught in a lie built by people long gone.
Samar continued, "Aarav spent the last months of his life trying to uncover the truth. He wanted to tell you—but he didn't want to give you hope unless he was sure."
Meera nodded, tears pooling in her eyes.
"Thank you," she whispered.
But Samar wasn't done.
"There's one more thing," he said, pulling out a final letter. A simple envelope. Aarav's handwriting.
"Give this to Meera only if she survives me," it read.
She opened it.
My Meera,
I hope this means you're still alive. That you're still breathing in a world without me.
I'm sorry I left you with questions. But I needed you to find them on your own. Because I knew that once you saw the truth— You'd find your strength.
And maybe, just maybe…
You'd learn to forgive not just me, but the story itself.
We were never a mistake.
Love, Aarav.
Meera closed the letter and let the tears fall freely.
Not out of guilt. Not from grief.
But from relief.
They hadn't sinned. They had simply loved.
And the world had made it more complicated than it had to be.
That night, back at the cottage, Meera stood by the cedar tree and whispered, "I'll finish our book."
She reached into her coat pocket and pressed her hand around the silver chain.
And for the first time in weeks, she felt his warmth—not in the ashes or the letters—
—but in the truth.
To be continued…