The house felt too quiet, as if it were holding its breath. The storm that had torn through the night before had left the air heavy, laden with dampness that clung to the walls and floors of the Sunayna mansion. Yet even in the calm, something uneasy lingered.
Maya had been pale all morning. Her steps were lighter than usual, her eyes more shadowed. She moved as though a weight pressed down on her shoulders, though her face betrayed nothing. At breakfast she had sat in silence, her spoon clinking once against her untouched porridge before she lowered it again. She ignored the murmurs around her, the way her brothers glanced at one another, the way Mahi's hand hovered near her own, uncertain, desperate to reach and yet afraid to touch.
When they moved into the study, Maya had taken her sketchbook into her lap. For hours she had stared at the page where Arab's face was drawn in faint strokes of graphite. The lines blurred beneath her gaze, not from tears but from exhaustion. The pencil in her hand grew shorter and shorter as she traced over his eyes, his jaw, the shadow of his smile. It was as if she feared the drawing would vanish if she did not carve it deeper.
And then, just after noon, as the light streamed through the high windows, she swayed. Her hand slipped. The pencil rolled across the carpet. The sketchbook fell with a dull thud against the chaise lounge. Maya's lips parted, a faint sigh escaping as her eyes rolled back.
For one suspended instant, no one moved.
Then Mahi gasped, the sound sharp as breaking glass. Fahad's teacup shattered against the floor, spilling dark liquid across the patterned rug. Fahim lunged forward, his chair toppling behind him, while Fahan froze, his hand gripping the armrest so tightly his knuckles turned white. Farhan's cane clattered to the ground as he stumbled to his feet. And Anik—Anik surged past them all, heart hammering, arms catching Maya's falling weight before her body struck the floor.
"Maya!" His voice was sharp, desperate, a knife cutting through the chaos.
Her body was limp against his chest, her head falling to one side, strands of hair spilling across her pale face.
"Bring her to her room," Anik commanded, his voice unsteady but strong.
Together they carried her, a blur of white linen and frightened faces. The air in the hallway trembled with panic, footsteps echoing off the marble as they hurried upstairs. Anik laid her gently upon the satin-covered bed, brushing a stray lock from her forehead. Her skin was too cool. His chest tightened.
Behind him, the others crowded into the doorway, silent but restless, their breaths quick, their hearts pounding.
Anik pressed two fingers against her wrist. There—a pulse, but faint, like the flutter of a dying bird. He pressed more firmly, willing it stronger. Her eyelids twitched, then fluttered open. For a moment, she seemed lost, her gaze wandering through shadows. Then her eyes focused on his face, and something wild flashed within them.
Suddenly, she pushed herself upright. "I have to go," she whispered, voice hoarse.
Before he could react, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet touching the cool floor. She tried to stand, but her knees wavered. Still, she pressed forward, her body trembling with urgency.
Anik caught her arm, holding her gently but firmly. "Stay," he urged, his voice low and desperate. "You're weak."
Her arm jerked free, her movements sharp, almost frantic. Her breath came fast, ragged. She stumbled toward the door, but before she could reach it, Rahi stepped into the threshold. He did not raise his voice, nor did he lift his hands. He simply stood there, still and calm, his eyes steady on hers.
"Please, Maya," he said quietly. "Not now."
She froze, her chest heaving. The silence stretched.
"She doesn't even speak unless she has to."
said Farhan from behind his piano.
And that's when it happened—
A loud thud.
The sound of something—someone—falling.
Rahi was the first to run.
The rest followed.
They found her in the hallway, collapsed against the wall. Her back against the cold marble. One gloved hand clutching her chest.
Her breath—ragged.
Her eyes—wide but distant.
She was trembling. Silently. Violently.
A panic attack.
Not like the one they had seen before.
Worse.
The kind that came not from fear of others—but from the weight of oneself.
"Maya?" Rahi whispered, kneeling beside her.
She didn't respond.
Her eyes blinked slowly. Her mouth opened as if to speak—but no sound came.
"She's not breathing properly," said Fahim, checking her pulse. "She's shutting down."
Rahi's voice cracked. "Maya, say something. Please."
Still nothing.
Then, her hand moved.
Not to reach out.
Not to defend.
But to pull something from inside her coat.
pin.
Silver. Sharp. Thin.
She held it to her own throat—not piercing, just pressing—lightly, like a reminder.
Her lips parted.
And finally, her voice came out—
" I distroy everything if i have to. I'm not broken. I am subject 17 B. "
Tears slid down Rahi's cheek. "We never said you were."
Maya shook her head slowly.
"I'm not broken," she repeated. "I was… made this way."
She looked up, and for the first time—really looked at them.
Eyes hollow. Skin pale. Lips trembling.
"But I feel too much," she whispered. "And I can't afford to show it."
Rahi reached out.
She flinched.
But didn't stop him this time.
He touched her hand—gently.
She allowed it.
Only for a moment.
Then pulled back.
"I don't want your pity," she said, voice fragile but clear.
"It's not pity," Rahi said. "It's understanding."
Then, slowly, her gaze turned—away from Rahi, away from the door—toward the grand piano resting in the corner of the room. Its polished wood gleamed faintly in the dim light, though its lid was shut, the keys long silent.
Her lips parted. "Farhan," she gasped, her voice trembling but urgent. "Play."
Farhan, who had stood half-hidden behind his brothers, blinked. His cane trembled in his grasp. For a moment, he seemed unsure whether he had heard her correctly. But when her eyes fixed on his, unwavering despite her weakness, he understood.
Without a word, he crossed the room. Each step was uncertain, but determination steadied him. He lowered himself onto the bench, his hands hovering above the keys, fingers trembling. The silence in the room was deafening.
Maya sank to her knees on the plush carpet, her head bowed. Her hair fell like a curtain around her face. Her hands clutched her diary, pressed tightly against her chest.
Farhan closed his eyes and pressed a single key.
The sound was clear, pure, cutting through the tension like a blade through cloth. The note hung in the air, vibrating softly.
Maya's lips parted. She closed her eyes and began to hum, her voice low and unsteady at first, then stronger. She matched his note, weaving her sound around his, fragile but insistent.
Farhan pressed another key, then another, piecing together a melody from memory. The notes were uneven, halting, but the room filled with sound. Maya hummed along, her body swaying slightly, her breath aligning with the rhythm.
As the music rose, something shifted. Color returned faintly to Maya's cheeks, warmth creeping back into her pale skin. Her trembling lessened. Her breathing steadied. It was as if the music reached into the hollow within her and pulled her back.
The others watched in silence. Anik's hand loosened its grip on the bedframe. Mahi's lips parted in a silent prayer, tears clinging to her lashes. Fahad pressed his fist against his mouth, trembling. Even Rahi, who had seemed so composed, exhaled softly, relief flickering in his eyes.
Maya's humming grew stronger, clearer. Her shoulders relaxed. She pressed her diary tighter to her chest, as though anchoring herself.
When at last the final note faded, the silence that followed was no longer heavy with fear. It was tender, fragile.
Maya opened her eyes. They were steady now, unwavering. She lifted her head and looked at Farhan, who sat rigid at the piano, his hands trembling over the keys.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice soft but clear.
Farhan's lips trembled, but he nodded. His eyes glistened. For a moment, the broken boy who had once turned away from music was whole again, his music a bridge between their wounds.u
No one spoke. The air itself seemed unwilling to disturb the fragile thread binding them.
But the peace did not last.
Mahi broke first, her voice raw and trembling. "Maya… what happened?" Her hands clutched the edge of the bed as though she might collapse. "Why would you faint like that? You scared us all—"
Maya's gaze turned to her, calm but unreadable. "I was tired," she said simply.
The words fell like stones. Too flat. Too easy. No one believed them, but none dared press further.
Anik frowned, his eyes narrowing. He saw the truth hidden in her silence, but he did not speak it aloud. Not yet.
Maya shifted, pulling herself back onto the bed. She leaned against the pillows, her diary still clutched in her hands. Her eyes lowered to its cover, tracing the worn edges with her fingers.
The others lingered, uncertain. Their fear had not subsided, only dulled by the fragile relief of her recovery. But in their hearts, they knew: Maya's fainting was not a simple weakness. It was something deeper, something they could not yet name.
Outside, the storm had passed, but the air remained heavy. The world beyond the windows seemed still, almost too still, as if it too held its breath.
Inside, the family gathered around Maya in silence. Their worry clung to the air, unspoken, inescapable. And though she sat among them, pale but steady, her mind was elsewhere—on the locked door within her heart, the one she had drawn in her diary.
She thought of Arab, of the Ghosts of Hell, of the scars that burned unseen.
The music had pulled her back this time. But for how long?
Her eyes lingered on Farhan. His trembling hands still rested on the piano keys, unwilling to lift. He looked at her, and in his eyes she saw not only love but recognition—the kind of recognition that came only from one broken soul seeing another.
She offered him the faintest nod. Nothing more.
And in that silence, in that fragile exchange, something was sealed.
Not forgiveness. Not healing. Not yet.
But a thread. Thin, unbreakable. A promise without words.
Maya leaned back against the pillows, her eyes closing once more—not from faintness, but from exhaustion. The diary slipped from her hand, resting against her chest like a shield.
The others did not move. They watched her, waiting, fearing, hoping.
And the mansion held its breath again, as if even its walls knew: the girl they could not undo had walked too close to the edge of darkness once more.
But she had not fallen.
Not yet.