In the morning, the house had forgotten how to breathe.
Since that night — the night of revelation, of serum and truth and wounds ripped open — silence had become its pulse. The chandeliers no longer dared to glitter fully, as though afraid to offend the fragile air that hung heavy between the walls. Curtains swayed even when there was no wind. Every corner seemed to listen, waiting for her voice, for the faintest sign that she still belonged to the living.
Maya had not spoken much since that night.
Days melted into each other like candle wax, slow and mournful. She would sit by the window, sketchbook on her knees, charcoal fingers tracing the same face again and again — Arib. Always Arib. The tilt of his eyes, the curve of his jaw, the faint smile that she could no longer remember clearly. Every page carried his shadow, a different version of the same boy she had lost.
Sometimes, the lines trembled — not because her hand was weak, but because her memories were.
She would stare at her own sketches for hours, lips slightly parted, eyes unfocused, as if waiting for the drawing to breathe.
Outside her door, the family gathered almost every evening. They whispered, argued, cried — all behind closed doors, afraid that she might hear, yet desperate for her to listen.
"Does she eat?" Mahi's voice trembled, hands clutching the edge of the table. "Did she eat anything today?"
Rahi sighed. "Half a cup of tea. Nothing else."
Mahim leaned forward, fingers interlaced, eyes sunken with sleeplessness. "We have to bring her back. She's… fading. Slowly."
Rani spoke softly, eyes rimmed with red. "I tried sitting with her. She didn't even look at me. I told her a story, one she used to love — she just kept drawing. It's like she doesn't hear."
"Maybe she does hear," Fahad murmured. "Maybe she just can't answer anymore."
Fahim shook his head bitterly. "She's not broken. She's… empty. They made her like that. That's what she said. No feelings, no love, no hate — just survival."
A thick silence settled among them, broken only by the ticking of the old grandfather clock.
"She's still our sister," Rahi whispered. "We'll find a way to reach her."
That night, Rahi entered Maya's room.
The air smelled faintly of graphite and rain. Her walls were covered — dozens of sketches, each one of Arib. His face repeated endlessly, drawn in every emotion Maya herself no longer knew how to feel.
Maya sat cross-legged on the floor, a new page before her, hair spilling over her shoulders. The lamp beside her cast a soft, golden pool around her — a small island of light in the sea of shadow.
Rahi knelt beside her.
"Maya," he said gently, "It's me. Rahi."
No answer.
He reached toward the sketchbook but stopped halfway.
"Can I… see?"
She didn't stop him, but she didn't nod either.
He slowly flipped the page. It was Arib again — this time, smiling faintly. But the eyes… the eyes were empty.
"Maya…" His voice broke. "Do you remember what you told us that night?"
Her hand, still holding the pencil, paused mid-line.
"You said they took your feelings away," he continued. "But feelings aren't something you lose forever. You can get them back. You're safe now."
Maya turned her head slowly toward him.
Her eyes met his — hollow, still, like two wells that reflected no sky.
"I am safe?" she whispered, the words fragile, uncertain, as if tasting them for the first time.
"Yes," Rahi said quickly, his heart clenching. "You're home. With us."
Her lips curved faintly, but not into a smile — it was something colder. "Home. Another cage. Just prettier walls."
Rahi's breath hitched. He tried to speak, but she had already turned back to her sketch.
"Do you… miss him?" he asked softly, afraid of the answer.
Maya's pencil pressed harder, breaking the tip.
She stared at the paper — at Arib's face — and whispered, "I don't know how to miss."
The pencil slipped from her fingers and rolled onto the floor.
Downstairs, the others waited.
When Rahi came down, his face was pale.
"How is she?" Mahi asked immediately.
He shook his head. "She talks, but… she's not there. It's like speaking to a reflection."
Fahim stood, pacing. "We have to do something. Call a doctor, a therapist — anyone."
"She won't let anyone touch her," Rani said quietly. "Yesterday, I tried brushing her hair — she flinched like I'd burned her."
Mahim rubbed his temples. "I've spoken to three specialists. They say… what happened to her, the trauma, the conditioning — it's deep. Years deep. They call it emotional dissociation."
Rahi clenched his fists. "Fancy words for something we can't fix."
"She can be fixed," Mahi said, though her voice trembled with uncertainty. "She has to be. She's my child."
For a moment, no one spoke. Only the sound of the rain outside filled the silence — slow, persistent, the sky itself weeping where Maya could not.
The next morning, Fahad entered her room.
He brought a tray — breakfast, still warm. "You should eat something," he said quietly.
Maya sat by the window again. The sketchbook lay open on her knees, another portrait half-finished. She didn't look up.
He placed the tray beside her. "I made this myself," he added, forcing a faint smile. "You used to like eggs with chili flakes, remember?"
No answer.
He stood there for a long moment before sighing softly. "You know… I was scared too, when I first learned what happened to you. But you're stronger than any of us, Maya. You've survived things that would destroy anyone else."
Maya's pencil paused.
"Survive," she whispered. "That's all I do. Survive. Not live."
Fahad's throat tightened. "Then let us help you live again."
Her hand trembled slightly — the first visible crack in her frozen calm. But she said nothing.
When he left, the eggs remained untouched.
Evening fell again. The family gathered around the living room fire.
Mahi sat with her head in her hands. "She's fading away in front of us," she whispered.
Mahim's voice was quiet, but heavy. "You know what hurts her the most? The memory of kindness. That's what broke her. Arib's kindness."
Rani's eyes filled. "She paints his face like she's trying to bring him back."
"Maybe that's all she has left," Rahi murmured. "A way to keep him alive inside her."
Fahim slammed his fist on the table suddenly. "And what about us? What are we supposed to do? Watch her disappear piece by piece?"
The fire crackled. Outside, thunder rolled over the hills.
Mahim spoke softly, "We wait. We don't push. We just… stay."
Days passed.
Sometimes, Maya would wander through the hallways at night — barefoot, silent, trailing her fingers against the cold walls as if searching for memories that weren't hers. The servants whispered that she was sleepwalking.
Other times, she'd sit by the garden fountain for hours, staring at her reflection in the water, whispering faint fragments of something — perhaps songs Arib had once sung.
One evening, Rani approached her there.
"Maya?" she said softly, sitting a few feet away. "It's getting dark. You'll catch cold."
Maya didn't move. Her eyes remained fixed on the rippling water.
"I used to sit here when I was your age," Rani continued. "I'd pretend the fountain could talk. Silly, I know."
Maya blinked slowly. "What did it say?"
Rani smiled faintly. "It said… that sadness passes if you let the water carry it away."
Maya tilted her head. "Water doesn't carry sadness. It reflects it."
Rani's smile faltered.
"Do you still dream, Maya?" she asked.
"Dreams are lies," Maya whispered. "They give you warmth only to take it away when you wake."
Rani felt her throat close. "You're wrong, sweetheart. Dreams remind us that warmth still exists somewhere. Even if we can't touch it yet."
Maya finally turned to her — the first time in days. Her eyes glimmered faintly in the dusk, cold but not entirely lifeless.
"Then why do dreams hurt more than memories?"
Rani had no answer.
Later that night, when everyone had gone to sleep, Rahi stood at Maya's door again.
He watched her from the threshold — the same small figure, lost in shadow and light, sketching endlessly.
For a moment, he thought he saw something move behind her — the faint shimmer of light, the echo of power.
A candle flickered.
Maya's hand froze midair. The air around her shimmered — faintly, like heat rising from desert sand.
The drawing in front of her began to shift. The lines of charcoal rippled, merging, twisting — and for a brief, impossible heartbeat, Arib's face blinked.
Rahi gasped, stepping forward — but the light vanished. The sketch returned to stillness. Maya's breathing was slow, even, as though nothing had happened.
He whispered her name, but she didn't answer.
She only whispered something under her breath — a name, soft and trembling, like a prayer:
"Arib…"
In the days that followed, they realized that the house itself had begun to change. Lights flickered when Maya was near. The garden flowers bloomed and withered overnight. Sometimes, they heard faint humming — tunes no one recognized.
"She's using her powers again," Fahim murmured one morning, watching from the window as Maya walked silently through the courtyard. "But not with intent. It's… reflex. Like breathing."
Mahim nodded grimly. "Her powers are tied to her emotions. If she feels nothing — they go wild. Uncontrolled."
"Then we have to make her feel again," Rahi said firmly.
Mahi looked up, tears glimmering. "But how do you teach someone to feel when her heart has been taught to fear it?"
No one had an answer.
The rain began to fall again, tapping softly on the windowpanes — rhythmic, endless, beautiful and mournful.
Upstairs, Maya sat by the same window, tracing the outline of Arib's face one last time.
Then she closed the book, pressed it to her chest, and whispered to the silent room.
"I never wanted to be empty . But how did such a situation... .. arise? "
The wind stirred, carrying her words through the darkened halls like a fragile vow — one that no one heard, yet everyone would soon feel.