The living room was still as a sealed crypt.
The heavy curtains shut out most of the sun; only a thin blade of light managed to slip in, falling across the marble floor like a crack in a tomb. The smell of polish, old wood, and faint incense hung in the air — a perfume of ghosts.
Maya sat on the edge of the sofa, her hands resting on her knees, her back straight. She was not waiting for anything. She was not doing anything. She was simply there, like a shadow caught in daylight.
Farhan and Faha whispered near the window. Mahi sat across from her daughter, twisting the edge of her sari between her fingers. Rahi leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching. The others moved through the room as if trying not to wake a sleeping animal.
Then it happened — a small, accidental thing, almost invisible.
A glass sat on the low wooden table, filled with water. Maya reached for it without looking. Her hand brushed against the rim, and the glass tipped. It slid from her fingers, struck the edge of the table, and shattered on the marble floor.
The sound was sharp, like a blade drawn from its sheath.
Maya did not flinch. She did not pull back her hand. She only sat there, the smallest bead of blood blossoming on her skin where the jagged edge had sliced her palm.
At first, no one moved. The others froze, as if the sound had struck them instead. Then — chaos.
Mahi's chair scraped back. "Maya!" she gasped.
Fahis darted forward, his face pale. "You're bleeding!"
Ohi cried out, "Get something — a cloth, a bandage—"
But Maya's expression did not change. She did not even glance at them. Her eyes dropped to the crimson trail winding down her wrist, and she simply watched it, as if it belonged to someone else.
The panic swelled. Voices overlapped, footsteps hurried across the marble. Someone fetched a towel; someone else reached for the first-aid box. But before anyone could touch her, Maya lifted her wounded hand slowly, calmly, and set it in her lap.
She reached for her notebook — the one she always carried, its pages filled with fragments of words and drawings. From between its covers, she drew a small sewing needle and a spool of black thread.
The room stilled.
"What are you doing?" Mahi whispered.
Without answering, Maya threaded the needle. Her fingers moved with a quiet precision, steady despite the blood. She held her palm close, bent over it, and began to stitch the wound herself — small, tight sutures, like she had done it a thousand times.
The others stared, horrified.
Fahis stepped forward, his voice breaking. "Why are you doing this yourself? Let us help you! Why.?? "
Maya's eyes flicked up for an instant, dark and unreadable. "If...if I don't, then who will?"
The words fell like stones into the silence.
Mahi's hands trembled where she stood. "Maya… how many times have you done this to yourself?"
Rahi, still leaning against the wall, lifted his gaze to her. His voice was quiet, but it carried a weight that made everyone turn. "Thousands of times."
Ohi spun to him, eyes wide. "How do you know that? Why would you say that?"
Rahi's face was calm, almost detached. "Because I was there," he said. "When she did it before. When no one else was looking. I saw her do it, again and again."
The room seemed to tilt.
Rahi stepped closer, his voice low but insistent. "But why now? Why again?"
Maya tied off a stitch, her fingers slick with her own blood. She did not look at them as she spoke.
"When I was younger," she said, her voice flat, "there was no one to tend my wounds. No one to clean them, no one to close them. Even when the cuts were deep, I had to do it myself. There was no other choice."
Her words landed like blows.
Behind her, Mahi made a small, choked sound. Tears swelled in her eyes and began to fall, silent at first, then heavier. "But you're not alone now," she whispered. "You don't have to do this now."
Maya paused for a heartbeat, the needle poised over her palm. She did not raise her head.
Then she said, softly, "Because it keeps me alive."
The words stopped everyone.
Mahi's tears slipped down her cheeks. "What do you mean?"
Maya drew the needle through her skin, pulled the thread tight, her voice still calm, still quiet. "It reminds me I'm still here. That I still exist. That I can still feel… even if it's only pain."
The room went silent except for the faint hiss of rain beginning to strike the windows.
Faha turned away, his hand pressed over his mouth. Farhan sat down heavily in a chair, his head bowed. Ohi backed up a step, tears brimming in her eyes.
Mahi dropped to her knees in front of her daughter. "Then let me feel it with you," she pleaded. "Let me help you carry it."
Maya looked down at her, her face unreadable. "You can't," she said simply. "It's mine."
She tied off the last stitch and bit the thread free. Her palm was trembling now, but she held it steady, pressing a scrap of cloth over the wound.
Mahi reached for her hand, but Maya withdrew it gently.
"I'm not angry," Maya said. "Not.... Anything. . I'm just… tired."
Rahi spoke again, his voice lower, almost a whisper. "She used to do this even when she was a child. I watched her sew herself up. I didn't tell anyone. I thought… I thought if I stayed quiet, it would stop."
Mahi turned to him, her eyes wild. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Rahi's jaw tightened. "Because you wouldn't have listened. You didn't.... ."
Mahi flinched as if he'd struck her.
Maya rose from the sofa, her movements slow but steady. The room seemed to shrink around her as she crossed it, the others parting to give her space. She walked to the window where the rain streaked down the glass and stood there, her stitched hand pressed lightly to her chest.
"I'm still alive," she murmured, more to herself than to them. "And sometimes, that hurts more than anything."
Her reflection in the glass stared back — pale, unblinking, with a thin seam of thread crossing her palm like a black scar.
Behind her, Mahi's sobs filled the room. "Then what can we do?" she asked, her voice breaking. "What can we do to make it stop?"
Maya did not turn. "You can't undo what's been done," she said softly. "You can only decide what you'll do now."
The rain deepened, drumming on the windows. The sky outside darkened, heavy with storm.
Fahis whispered, "She's slipping away."
But Rahi shook his head slowly. "No. She's holding on. Just… not the way we think."
Maya drew her notebook back to her chest. She opened it with her good hand, turned to a blank page, and began to write. Her pen scratched across the paper, each word deliberate, heavy:
I mend myself because no one else will. I stitch myself because no one else knows how. I feel pain because it is the only thing that tells me I am still here.but why did i trust you arab.??
She paused, then wrote one more line:
One day, I will not need the needle,... .
She closed the notebook, tucked it under her arm, and turned at last to face them.
"I'm going to my room," she said simply.
No one moved to stop her.
They watched her leave — her slight figure, her stitched hand, her shadow moving up the stairs. She disappeared into the darkness of the hallway without looking back.
In the living room, Mahi sat on the floor, tears sliding down her face. Rahi stood over her, his eyes fixed on the place where Maya had vanished. Ohi leaned against the wall, trembling.
"She's stronger than we ever knew," Rahi said quietly. "But strength like that… it comes from too much pain."
Mahi pressed her hands to her face. "I should have been there," she whispered. "I should have stopped this."
Rahi looked down at her, his expression unreadable. "Then be here now."
The storm outside rose to a roar. Thunder rolled across the sky like distant drums. The mansion seemed to hold its breath.
Upstairs, in the dim light of her room, Maya sat on the floor with her back against the wall. She opened her notebook again, turned to a fresh page, and drew — not a face, not a door this time, but a needle and a thread winding through a heart.
She stared at it for a long time.
Then she wrote beneath it: The girl they don't know.
She closed the notebook, laid it beside her, and pressed her stitched palm to her note book .
The rain kept falling.
And in the silence between thunderclaps, she breathed — slow, steady, alive.