At first, there was nothing.
Not light. Not sound. Not even memory.
Then — a breath. Her own.
Maya's eyes opened slowly. The world returned in fragments, scattered pieces stitching themselves together: the ceiling's pale glow, the faint hum of the air conditioner, the sterile quiet that clung too tightly to her ears. It felt less like waking and more like surfacing from beneath deep, suffocating water.
Her lungs worked cautiously, as though even breathing required permission. She shifted her head, just a fraction, and that was when she saw them.
Not just one face. Not just her family.
*All of them.*
Mahi, kneeling at her bedside, sari crumpled like wilted silk, her face streaked with tears that had dried and returned again. Mahim in the corner, his back iron-straight, fists hidden behind him, the storm in his veins disguised by rigid stillness.
Her brothers. Fahad, pacing, restless as fire caged in too small a room. Fahan, leaning into the dresser's shadow, his silence so sharp it cut. The twins, Faha and Fahish, pressed shoulder to shoulder near the door, pale as if laughter had been stolen permanently from their mouths. Farhan, collapsed on the carpet, knees bent, his eyes hollow — as though his rage had burned him down to ash.
Behind them, the servants. Wide-eyed, whispering among themselves, too afraid to move. Guards in uniform, standing stiff yet useless. Even cousins peering from the hallway, their faces pale as moonlight, caught between fear and pity.
And at the very edge, half-swallowed by shadow, leaning against the wall with unnerving patience — **Anik.**
All of them watching her. All of them waiting.
Like the world had shifted while she slept, and they were desperate for her to define what it had become.
Maya blinked once. Slow. Her lashes heavy as if weighed down by centuries. She pushed herself upright, her thin frame moving deliberately, as though her bones might splinter if she moved too quickly.
The blanket slid from her shoulders.
And that was when she saw it.
Her hand.
Bare.
Her glove — the one thing that had never left her skin — was gone.
Her breath faltered, the smallest break in her composure. Her eyes widened, not much, but enough.
And in that heartbeat, the illusion she had woven for fifteen years unraveled.
Because they saw.
The scars.
Not light scratches. Not the harmless traces of childhood falls.
But deep, brutal carvings. Lines gouged into her flesh, layered upon each other, twisted patterns of pain etched into her skin with something far crueller than ink.
Wounds that were not accidents. Wounds that were not healed. Wounds that spoke of years of repetition, of deliberate cruelty, of survival branded into her body.
The room forgot how to breathe.
The silence grew so heavy it seemed the air itself would shatter.
Maya's fingers twitched, then lunged. She yanked her sleeve down with such violence the fabric burned against her arm. She clutched it around her hand like it was the last shield left between herself and the world.
But it was too late.
They had all seen.
Not just her family. Not just blood. Even strangers — servants, guards, cousins. The secret she had buried beneath silence and shadows now stood naked before them.
Her chest rose and fell once. Twice. Her head bowed. She did not look up, not even once.
"Where is my glove?"
Her voice was soft. Cold. Too calm.
No one answered.
Mahi's lips trembled. She tried to reach, but her hands faltered midair, paralyzed by the memory of her daughter recoiling hours earlier. Her tears streamed freely. "Maya…"
Maya did not look at her.
She did not look at any of them.
Her eyes stayed on the floor, her grip crushing her sleeve until her knuckles turned white beneath the cloth.
Then, slowly, carefully, she stood. Every movement deliberate, controlled, sculpted against the weight of their stares.
"I'm tired."
Her voice didn't shake.
She turned. Walked toward the door. Each step whispered on the carpet like the ticking of a clock.
No one dared to move. Not Mahi. Not Mahim. Not her brothers. Not even Anik.
The door closed with a soft click.
And her absence cut through the room like a blade.
Mahi broke first.
Her knees buckled, hitting the carpet hard. She crumpled forward, hands pressing against the rug as sobs tore free, raw and broken. "My baby… my baby… what did they do to you?"
Her wail filled the silence like thunder.
Fahim dropped to his knees beside her, his hands trembling — the same hands that had healed strangers, stitched wounds, steadied patients. For the first time, those hands shook. His voice was hoarse. "These… these weren't accidents. Those scars weren't cuts. They were carved." He swallowed hard, his throat tight. "Deliberately. Over and over. Someone did this to her."
Fahan's voice came from the shadows. His head was bowed, his arms folded across his chest, his words bitter enough to poison the air. "Someone hurt her. Again and again. And she never screamed loud enough for the world to hear."
Fahad exploded. His fist slammed into the wall, the crack echoing through the chamber. "She's *fifteen!* Who the hell did this to her? Who—who left her like that?!" His voice broke, raw with helpless fury.
The twins sat frozen, colorless, like boys who had just learned nightmares could bleed into daylight. One bit his lip until it split; the other's hands dug into his thighs so hard the skin would bruise.
Mahim hadn't moved. His back remained straight, his gaze fixed on the rain streaking the window. But behind his rigid stance, his fists twisted so tightly behind him that the veins bulged like cords. His voice was low, deadly, unshaking.
"Not *what.*" A pause. "*Who.*"
The air thickened with rage.
Farhan's voice cracked from behind his hands. He had buried his face into them, his shoulders trembling. "I saw them… Those weren't just scars of pain. They were survival. She survived things we'll never even imagine."
The servants clung to each other, whispering prayers under their breath. The guards lowered their heads, ashamed at their uselessness. No one dared to breathe too loud.
And then —
A voice.
Anik.
He hadn't moved. He hadn't spoken. Until now.
"She didn't want us to see."
Every head turned to him.
"She covered it the second she woke up," he continued, calm, unnervingly calm. His eyes traced the path where Maya had walked out. "That wasn't shame. That was… protection."
Mahi lifted her tear-soaked face, her voice trembling. "Protection from what?"
Anik's gaze was unblinking. "From *us.* From anyone who would look at her and see only a victim, instead of the storm she's become."
His words cracked the silence open like lightning.
Because in that moment, every single soul in the room understood —
They hadn't just glimpsed scars. They had trespassed into a battlefield. A battlefield Maya had walked alone.
And now, with one slip of fabric, with one missing glove — they had seen what she had never wanted revealed.
Hours passed.
No one left the room.
The storm outside softened into rain, but inside, the storm only thickened.
Mahi lay curled on the rug, praying silently, her tears staining the floor. Fahad sat against the wall, fists pressed against his temples as though trying to crush his own helplessness. Fahan didn't move, his silence a knife against the room's skin. Fahim cleaned his glasses twice, then abandoned them, his hands still shaking.
The twins leaned against each other, younger than they had ever seemed. Farhan sat on the carpet, hollow, his rage extinguished.
And Anik —
Anik did not move.
He sat where Maya had left him, leaning against the shadowed wall. His gaze was fixed on the door she had walked through. His hand flexed once, slowly, deliberately, as though remembering the weight of carrying her. His eyes were unblinking.
Not pity. Not grief. Something colder. Something hungrier.
Even silence seemed to bend around him.
When Mahim finally spoke, his voice was low and sharp enough to cut through bone.
"We cannot ignore this anymore."
Every head lifted.
He turned slowly from the rain-streaked window. His eyes were hard, unreadable. "Something happened to her. Before us. Before this house. Something that left scars we cannot see. We must find the truth."
Fahad lifted his head, his voice rough. "How? She won't speak. She won't even look at us half the time. If we push, she'll only… break ."
"She's already broken," Fahan said flatly. His voice carried no mercy. "And whoever did this is alive. Breathing. Walking. While she—" His jaw snapped shut, words devoured by fury.
Mahi shook her head, tears dripping. "Don't. Don't say broken. She's not broken. She's alive. She's here. That is enough."
"Enough?" Fahad's voice cracked, sharp, furious. He turned, eyes burning. "Did you *see* her tonight? Did you hear her? Begging — *please don't hit me*? Tell me that's enough!"
The words shattered the silence. Mahi covered her mouth with trembling hands.
The air grew unbearable.
Then Anik's voice cut through.
"She will speak anyway."
The room stilled.
Every eye turned to him.
The storm outside eased into still drizzle. But inside, the weight only grew heavier.
When Maya walked down the corridor alone, the house seemed to breathe differently. The walls carried whispers. The shadows stretched longer. Every footstep she took echoed with the memory of bare scars laid open.
But her face — her face did not change.
Unblinking. Unmoving.
Because Maya knew what no one else yet understood:
The glove was gone, but the mask remained.
And the scars — the scars had only just begun to speak.