Maya don't talk much after that night.
The house had not seen so much light in years.
Every chandelier was lit, every corridor washed in gold. The marble floors reflected silken hems and polished shoes as if the house itself had been scrubbed raw to impress the world outside. The air smelled of tuberoses, of incense faint enough to hide the staleness of old dust but not so strong as to offend the delicate noses of ministers' wives and university deans.
It was not a wedding.
Not a funeral.
Not even a birthday.
But it carried a weight heavier than all three.
A Ceremony of Return.
Mahi had arranged it. Her trembling hands had signed the invitations, her weary voice had made the calls. The wording was careful, stripped of drama:
"Mayaboti Sunayna, daughter of Mahim and Mahi Sunayna, returned to her family after fourteen years. Please join us in a quiet celebration."
But no guest arrived with quiet intentions.
They came with sharpened curiosity.
They came to see the girl who vanished in smoke and rumor.
They came to see what kind of ghost had returned.
The hall filled with whispers before the first hour.
"Fourteen years… and they never spoke of her."
"I heard she was stolen."
"No, given away."
"She looks older, doesn't she? Fifteen? That girl? She looks like she's lived a century.. But she is too beautiful. "
"They say she doesn't speak."
"They say she doesn't laugh."
Servants moved like shadows, replenishing drinks, lowering trays, ignoring the words that sliced through the air. Musicians sat near the staircase, their sitar strings sighing through the noise, but even the music sounded wary, as if it too feared what was coming.
And then—
She appeared.
Maya.
Her entrance was not announced by trumpets or family members. She walked into the hall without warning, without ceremony.
A black figure in a room of color.
Her dress was plain—black silk that clung without ornament, without embroidery. Her hair was braided tight, a dark river pulled back from her pale face. No jewelry. No powder on her skin. Only her gloves—black as midnight—covering every finger, every scar.
She looked like neither child nor woman.
Neither guest nor host.
She looked like something the storm had carried inside.
The conversations broke off. One by one, heads turned, eyes followed.
Mahim stood stiff at the far end of the hall, his jaw set, his eyes unreadable. Mahi, draped in soft sari folds of cream and gold, tried to smile but failed—her trembling lips betrayed her. The brothers lingered on the periphery, each one restless in his own way: Fahad with his clenched fists, Fahan with his narrowed eyes, Fahim with his careful stillness. The twins whispered nervously to one another until even they fell quiet.
And then Fahad stepped forward.
His voice was clear, sharp, cutting through the silence.
"This is Mayaboti. My sister."
Maya only nodded once.
No bow.
No greeting.
No words to fill the silence.
The whispers returned, thicker now.
"She doesn't smile."
"She looks dangerous."
"She's beautiful—too beautiful."
"She doesn't look fifteen."
Maya heard every word. Each syllable slipped into her ears like pins piercing paper.
But her face never moved.
Her heart never moved.
She stood, empty, and let their words fall around her like broken glass.
🍁
The ceremony pressed on, though the air was already growing heavy with whispers. The chandeliers glittered, the polished marble shone like glass, and servants carried silver trays of drinks that hardly anyone touched. People smiled, but it was the kind of smile that didn't reach the eyes.
And there she stood—
Maya.
A shadow in plain sight.
She didn't belong to the glimmering world around her, and she made no attempt to. She leaned against the carved pillar by the glass doors leading out to the garden. Half her face caught the gold glow of the chandelier, the other half lay in shadow. Her black suit looked too sharp, too severe, against the pastel silks and embroidered panjabis of the crowd.
Every movement of hers felt deliberate—her hands folded loosely in front of her, her dark eyes drifting not toward the crowd but inward, as though she were watching a different ceremony unfold in her mind.
She carried a small notebook, bound in black leather. Even here, among all this glitter and chatter, she opened it now and then. A pencil scratched lightly, filling the silence between breaths. She didn't hide it. She didn't care who saw.
Some guests noticed. They tried, nervously, to approach her.
A minister's wife leaned down, silk rustling, voice sweet as syrup.
"My dear, what are you writing? Something about this evening? Poetry?"
Maya didn't even look at her. She turned a page. Wrote another line.
The woman lingered a moment longer, then retreated, unsettled.
A professor—gray-haired, spectacles trembling on his nose—ventured closer.
"You're… Maya, aren't you? The youngest? I hear you study at St. Helena's? Such a rare institution for someone so young. May I ask—what subject fascinates you most?"
Silence.
Maya kept her pencil moving.
The professor waited. His smile faltered. He adjusted his glasses. At last, he coughed, muttered something about "youth these days," and shuffled off, embarrassed.
And then, a cousin. Loud, overconfident. He reached out, fingers brushing the sleeve of Maya's jacket.
"Why so serious, cousin? Smile, na. It's a party—"
Her head turned. Slowly.
Her eyes—black glass reflecting nothing—slid to his hand on her arm. He froze. The pressure of her gaze was a blade, silent but unbearable.
The cousin yanked his hand back as if burned. "Th-they said you were quiet," he stammered, retreating into the crowd.
The whispers grew sharper.
"She acts as though she doesn't care about anything."
"She's pretending."
"She's strange."
"She is strange ".
But Maya didn't hear them. Or if she did, she gave no sign.
Then—
The far doors burst open.
And the atmosphere shifted.
A figure walked in.
Not dressed for the occasion. Not dressed for any occasion.
His shirt was half-unbuttoned, collar stained, sleeves shoved up to his elbows. His shoes carried mud. His hair hung uncombed, and his jaw was rough with stubble. His skin seemed stretched tight over bone, as if each night had stolen more of him.
He was young—not older than twenty-three. But his eyes… his eyes looked ancient. Hollowed. As if time had punished him beyond his years.
The crowd recoiled. Murmurs rose. Guards stiffened.
Mahi's hand flew to her chest. "Who let this man in?"
Mahim's gaze sharpened, calculating. He did not move yet.
But Maya—Maya's head lifted before anyone else's.
Her eyes locked on the figure.
And for the first time that night, something flickered across her face.
Her glass slipped from her hand. Shattered against the marble.
The sound cracked the silence like thunder. Every guest froze, eyes darting between her and the intruder.
And then the man saw her.
His steps faltered. His lips parted. His breath caught as if he'd been struck in the chest.
He staggered forward, hand half-reaching toward her. His voice broke the silence, hoarse, raw, shaking.
"Subject… 17B?"
The words cut the air like a knife.
The hall erupted with confused gasps.
"Subject? What did he say?"
"Seventeen…? What does that mean?"
"Is he mad?"
But Maya did not flinch.
Her jaw tightened. Her eyes, cold as steel, locked on him.
And then—she answered.
"Subject 13A."
The words slid out like poison. Calm. Deadly. Final.
A silence deeper than shock swallowed the room.
The man's knees buckled. He collapsed before her, hands trembling. His forehead pressed against her shoulder, not daring to look up. His voice broke, sobbing through clenched teeth.
"I didn't know," he choked. "God, Maya—I didn't know they did that to you. If I had known, I wouldn't have left you there. I swear—I wouldn't have run."
Murmurs rippled again. Faces leaned closer, greedy for answers.
And then—his voice cracked on a single word.
"Arab…"
The name detonated like a bomb.
Arab.
No one knew what it meant. But the way Maya froze—the way her hand twitched toward the silver pin in her hair—told everyone it was not a word meant to be spoken here.
Her hand moved deliberately, pulling the pin free. Its edge gleamed sharp in the chandelier's light. She raised it to his throat, close enough that a single breath would draw blood.
Screams rose. Guards rushed forward. Fahim shoved through the crowd, shouting, "Maya! Stop!"
But Maya's voice carved through the chaos like a blade:
"Subject 13A. Control your emotions—or you die here."
The hall fell silent.
Even the chandeliers seemed to shiver.
The man—Rahi—didn't move. His tears spilled freely, sliding down his face, but his throat remained bared. He did not resist.
"I thought you were dead," he whispered, voice cracking like glass. "They told me you burned. They told me you never made it out. I—I believed them. I wanted to believe them because… if you were alive, then I was a coward for leaving."
Maya's eyes did not soften. She drew the pin back and slid it into her hair once more.
Her voice rose, cold, deliberate.
"This is Subject 13A. He was with me. Before the fire."
The room exploded in confusion.
"What fire?"
"What is this?"
"Subject? What kind of subject?"
But Maya didn't explain.
Her eyes snapped to the crowd, sharp and merciless.
"You saw nothing. You heard nothing."
Her words were not a plea. They were an order.
"Do you understand?"
The silence that followed was too loud.
"You all saw nothing."
Rahi noded . without saing any word.
Her gaze slid to Rahi, then to her family. Her voice quieted, but its weight pressed into every corner of the room.
"Now you know."
And with that, she turned. Walked away.
Each footstep rang out against the marble. Slow. Steady. Final.
And in her wake, the glittering ceremony crumbled into silence, the weight of her revelation pressing like a stone on every chest.
They had only just begun to glimpse the truth.