The rope lay coiled on the carpet like a dead serpent.
It had been cut clean, the fibers frayed where Maya's silver pin had sliced through. It should have been harmless now, just a length of useless rope. Yet its presence was unbearable. It sat there in the corner, heavy, obscene, a reminder of the moment when breath had nearly left the house forever.
Farhan sat on the edge of his bed, a blanket thrown over his shoulders, his dark hair clinging to his damp forehead. His chest rose and fell unevenly, each inhale jagged, each exhale trembling. His lips were cracked, pale. His eyes—red-rimmed, wet—avoided everyone.
Mahi sat beside him, both hands clutching his arm so tightly her knuckles had turned white. Tears slid soundlessly down her cheeks, falling on the blanket. She kept whispering his name under her breath, as though repeating it might tether him to life.
Mahim stood at the foot of the bed, one hand gripping the edge of the carved wooden frame. His jaw was locked, his eyes unreadable, but the tremor in his hand betrayed him.
The brothers filled the room like shadows cast at strange angles. Fahad by the window, fists clenched, jaw grinding. Fahim near the door, pacing in short, sharp steps like a caged animal. Fahan leaning against the wall, arms crossed, the usual cocky tilt of his chin replaced with something grim. Even the twins lingered in the hall, their silence unusual, their eyes fixed on the floor.
And then there was Maya.
She sat by the window, legs tucked beneath her, a sketchbook open across her lap. The pencil moved in steady strokes, soft against the paper. She hadn't said a word since she'd cut the rope. Not one. She hadn't cried, hadn't trembled, hadn't so much as blinked when Mahi screamed and the others rushed forward. She simply sat and drew, her calm presence louder than the chaos.
The silence pressed on everyone until it became unbearable.
Finally, Farhan's voice broke through. Weak. Hoarse. But clear enough to split the air.
"I… I couldn't breathe anymore."
Every head turned toward him.
Fahad pushed off the window with a sharp movement. "What the hell are you talking about?" His voice was harsh, too loud for the fragile room.
Farhan didn't flinch. His eyes stayed fixed on his trembling hands. "Every day, it felt like I was drowning. Expectations. Music. The Sunayna name. My own mistakes. It just—" His voice cracked. "It never stops. The noise never stops in my head."
Fahan crouched in front of him, his tone softer but no less urgent. "You should've told us. You should've said something."
Farhan gave a hollow laugh. "Would you have listened? Or would you have told me to be strong? To 'be a man'? To carry the family legacy?" His bitter smile didn't reach his eyes. "I already know the answer."
No one spoke.
Even Mahi, her lips trembling, couldn't deny it.
Farhan's gaze drifted again, pulled as if by gravity, to Maya. She hadn't looked up once. She was still sketching, her braid falling forward like a dark curtain. His voice trembled.
"But why…" His throat tightened. He forced the words out. "Why did you save me?"
The air in the room shifted.
It was not a question for his mother, or his father, or his brothers. It was only for her.
All eyes turned toward Maya.
The pencil scratched softly across the paper. She didn't answer. Didn't even raise her head. The silence stretched, taut and suffocating.
Farhan swallowed hard, his voice breaking. "Tell me, Maya. Why?"
At last, the pencil stilled. She didn't lift her eyes, but her voice came—soft, steady, unhurried.
"You're alive."
Her words were simple. But they landed like a blade in the silence.
The room held its breath.
She let the pause stretch, then added, her voice calm but edged with steel:
"Live angry. Live in music. But live, Farhan. Because I too have made mistakes. Great mistakes. And I am paying for them—every day. I will pay for them for the rest of my life. Do not make the same mistakes I did. A mistake cannot be undone."
She turned a page in her sketchbook and resumed drawing. As if the conversation was over.
But it wasn't.
Fahad slammed his fist against the wall. The crack echoed like thunder. "That's it? That's all you'll say? Do you even understand what just happened here? He was hanging, Maya! Hanging! And you—" His words stumbled. "You talk like… like you're teaching him a lesson!"
Maya didn't look at him. Her pencil kept moving.
"Answer me!" Fahad's voice rose, raw, furious.
Still nothing.
It was Fahim who cut in, his voice colder, controlled. "She already answered." He studied her, sharp eyes narrowing. "Not for you. For him."
Farhan lifted his head, blinking at his brother, then back at Maya. His lips trembled. "What… what mistake, Maya? What did you do?"
For the first time, her hand paused.
The pencil hovered above the page.
The room froze, every ear straining for her answer.
But Maya only lowered the pencil again and kept drawing.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Mahim cleared his throat, his voice low but steady. "Farhan… you are my son. You carry our name, yes, but you are more than that. You—"
Farhan cut him off, bitterness sharp in his voice. "Don't. Don't pretend this is about me. This house has never been about me. It's always been about what I represent. The name. The legacy. The piano." His voice cracked. "Even when I lost my music… all you saw was shame."
Mahi broke then. She threw her arms around him, sobbing. "No! No, my child, never shame. Never you." Her tears wet his shoulder, her voice desperate. "If I failed to see your pain, forgive me. But don't—don't leave me. Please, Farhan."
Farhan closed his eyes, torn between anger and grief. His mother's arms felt both comforting and suffocating. He looked past her again, to the girl who sat in silence, and whispered:
"She's the only one who sees me."
Every head turned again.
Maya finally lifted her eyes.
Dark. Calm. Piercing.
She looked at him for a long moment, unblinking. Then her lips curved, barely, into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Then live," she said.
The words were soft. Final.
Farhan's shoulders shook. He bent forward, clutching his head, torn apart by the weight of everything—his failure, his survival, his sister's impossible calm.
The others shifted uneasily, each of them grappling with truths they didn't want to name.
Fahad turned away, fists still clenched. Fahim's calculating gaze never left Maya, unsettled by the depth he could not chart. Fahan folded his arms tighter, unease replacing every trace of arrogance. Mahim's lips pressed into a thin line, his authority hollowed.
And Maya—Maya simply closed her sketchbook with a soft snap, rose from the sofa, and tied her braid back over her shoulder.
She didn't explain herself. She didn't comfort. She didn't justify.
She simply walked to the door.
Her steps were soft, deliberate. When she reached the threshold, she paused, her profile lit by the dim glow of the hallway lamps.
"Live, angry. Live in music. But live, Farhan."
Then she left.
The sound of her footsteps faded, and only then did the room breathe again.
But her words lingered, heavy, unshakable, etched into every heart that had heard them.