Apoorva, as usual, reached the office on time and immersed herself in her files and mails. The routine silence of her cabin was broken when she suddenly picked up her phone and dialed Aaron's number. Within five minutes, Aaron stepped into her cabin, curious. Apoorva, in a soft and almost pleading tone, said, "Can you drop me at a place this afternoon? Since it's the weekend, there won't be much work anyway. We're here today just because of the norms."
Her voice carried that gentle request which Aaron could never quite refuse. Though his heart no longer leaned toward her with the same interest as before, the bond of friendship still held him back from saying no. With a small nod, he agreed. By late afternoon, both packed up and left the office together. Aaron drove, while Apoorva sat beside him, calm yet carrying something unsaid. After a while, he pulled over at a serene spot outside the city—an enchanting home surrounded by greenery, part of a sanctuary Apoorva had quietly set up.
Aaron's eyes lit with a trace of surprise and curiosity at the beauty of the place. Yet, respecting her privacy, he did not ask anything personal. He just stayed quiet, soaking in the view. Apoorva, noticing his silence, smiled faintly and handed him an invitation for lunch there at the sanctuary. It felt different, almost like a hidden piece of her world opening up. Something about it stirred Aaron's interest, and this time he didn't resist. With a calm smile, he agreed to join her.
Aaron followed Apoorva through the tall iron gates of the sanctuary. The moment they stepped inside, his eyes began scanning every corner with quiet detail. The place was alive with warmth and activity. He saw small children running about, their laughter echoing like music; in another corner, middle-aged men and women with special needs were engaged in simple crafts, their faces glowing with effort and joy. Elderly men and women sat together under a shaded veranda, some in wheelchairs, some with walking sticks, their eyes carrying the weight of waiting—for companionship, for support, perhaps just for a kind word.
It struck Aaron as unusual, almost surreal—all these different lives woven together in one place. As he walked beside Apoorva, his gaze shifted to the front yard where three figures stood waiting. Veena, Apoorva's mother, greeted them with her usual calm dignity. Beside her, little Roohi bounced on her toes the moment she saw Aaron, her innocent smile lighting up the air. Standing slightly apart was a middle-aged woman with kind, sharp eyes—Anitha.
Aaron greeted Veena with folded hands and a polite smile, then bent slightly to return Roohi's cheerful "Hello, uncle!" His mind, however, lingered in quiet surprise. He had not expected to find Apoorva's family here. The sanctuary seemed to hold more stories than Apoorva had ever let him know.
All of them walked further inside, leading Apoorva and Aaron through the quiet corridors of the sanctuary. In one corner, on a wooden bench, sat an old lady whose frail frame and weary eyes carried the heaviness of abandonment. Without a word, Apoorva stepped forward. Her face softened, and with deep affection, she knelt beside the woman and wrapped her arms around her. The old lady, as though waiting for this very moment, broke down in sobs, burying her face into Apoorva's shoulder. Tears slipped freely, days of loneliness flowing out all at once.
Aaron stood still, watching silently. The sight stirred something inside him, though he couldn't fully piece together what was happening. His eyes carried that unspoken question—half knowing, half lost. Apoorva gently pacified the woman, her voice soothing like a lullaby. She then signaled Anitha, who stepped forward and carefully guided the old lady to a room prepared for her.
Turning back, Apoorva composed herself quickly. She asked Veena and little Roohi to check the lunch arrangements, her voice calm but firm. Now, only she and Aaron remained in the long hallway.
Outside the sanctuary walls, the city roared with its usual noise—traffic, chatter, the rush of life. But here, it was different. The air between them had grown still, almost sacred in its silence. They stepped out and strolled slowly through the grounds, past flowering trees and shaded benches. Aaron's gaze fell upon the stone wall near the entrance, where bold letters read:
"THE HOME"
Confusion knitted his brow. He turned to her, unable to hold back any longer. "What is this place, Apoorva? Who was that lady? And... why did we come here?", "Isn't it beautiful, Aaron?", Apoorva asked with a bright smile. Aaron nodded calmly, "yes Ofcourse, it is!"
Apoorva paused for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the name carved into the wall—The Home. Then, with a deep breath, she began walking again, motioning him to follow.
"This place," she said softly, "isn't just walls and rooms. It's a shelter for fifty souls... people who once had families, or dreams, or a sense of belonging—until life pushed them out. They are not poor, Aaron. They were not weak or useless. They are here because of the choices—the betrayals—of the very people who once promised to love them."
As they strolled through the pathways, she pointed gently to different corners. "That boy there—Raju," she nodded toward a thin twelve-year-old playing with a paper ball. "His parents left him at a railway station. Not because he was a burden, but because they wanted one less mouth to feed. He still waits for them, thinking they might return." She led Aaron further in, where two middle-aged men were weaving baskets under one's guidance. "Suresh and Mahesh. Both brothers. Their family couldn't handle their mental condition. Instead of care, they chose abandonment. Left at a hospital gate like discarded baggage."
Her steps slowed near the garden, where a little girl with braids was drawing in the mud. "This is Meera. Seven years old. Her mother died in childbirth, and her father chose alcohol over responsibility. It wasn't her fault, but she paid the price for his weakness." After listening that name Aaron thought of his sister and his heart ached somewhat for that little girl's fate.
Apoorva continued without recognizing changes in Aaron's face, "Do you see that old woman knitting by the veranda? That's Lakshmi Amma. She raised three sons... all well-settled now. Yet when her health began to fail, they decided she was a burden. One morning, they just dropped her off at a temple. She waited three days before someone brought her here."
Then, pointing to a toddler playing with a small wooden toy in the courtyard, she whispered, "That's Latha. She's just three. When she was an infant, someone left her in a basket at the gates. We named her ourselves. Imagine, Aaron—her first abandonment was by the very hands that brought her into this world and the one who named her has nothing to do with her!"
A man with crutches sat quietly, gazing at the ground. "That's Narayan. Once the sole breadwinner of his family. After an accident left him disabled, the same family that thrived on his earnings cast him out. They didn't see the man who had built their lives—only the weight of his broken body."
Her eyes grew heavy as she pointed to another corner. "Radha. She was left here after her husband remarried. She was told she no longer 'fit' into the family because she couldn't bear a child. As if her entire worth was reduced to her womb." Near the neem tree sat Joseph, clutching a photo frame. "He worked his whole life for his daughter. She promised to take him with her when she settled abroad. Instead, she sent him here with the excuse that he would be 'looked after better.' He still waits, polishing her photo every day, never losing hope."
Aaron's chest tightened. The stories weren't about poverty or helplessness—they were about betrayal, selfishness, and the cruelty of choices. These weren't people society had failed. These were people whose own families had turned their backs.
Finally, Apoorva stopped and looked at him, her voice steady but filled with quiet fire. "This is why we built The Home, Aaron. Not for the poor or the unwanted. But for those who were once everything to someone—and were still left behind. They are not the waste of society. They are the scars of love gone wrong."
Aaron walked beside Apoorva through the quiet halls of The Home, each step weighing heavier than the last. The stories she had shared—of the abandoned child, the forgotten breadwinner, the silenced voices of betrayal—were already burning into him, leaving behind a sharp ache. These were not just people; they were the shattered mirrors of love gone wrong. He felt something inside twist, as though the walls themselves were pressing in with their grief. Just then, Apoorva's voice softened, and she pointed toward the frail old woman they had seen earlier.
"And the woman we saw when we came in... she is the newest member of this family," Apoorva began. Her tone carried both strength and sorrow, like a thread pulled taut. "Her daughter left her at a bus stop, promising she would come back with water bottle. It has been four days. Four long days she sat there, not moving an inch, because she thought—what if her daughter returned and couldn't find her?"
Aaron's breath caught in his chest. "But the reality," Apoorva continued, her eyes glistening though her voice did not break, "is that she was abandoned. Cast aside. Her daughter never planned to return. That woman wasn't crying because she had spent four days without food or shelter. She was crying because she believed. Because she trusted. Because the love she gave freely was repaid with betrayal. That... was her return gift for being a mother."
The words struck Aaron harder than he expected, like an invisible blow. He couldn't speak; he could only look at the old woman again, her bent frame trembling, her hands clutching memories no one else wanted. And for the first time, he understood why Apoorva called this place The Home—not for shelter, but to preserve the last fragments of love that the world had broken.
Apoorva's gaze lingered on the woman for a moment longer before she turned to Aaron, her voice carrying the weight of unspoken pain. "I don't know," she whispered, "whether to feel happy that our family here is growing... or to feel sorrow that the world outside is abandoning theirs." A sigh escaped her lips, soft but heavy, like it carried the grief of all fifty souls under this roof.
She looked at Aaron then, as though realizing how much she had revealed. "Sorry to bother you with these stories," she said gently. "I can never control myself when someone visits this place. How can I not tell them? Just as I can't introduce only my mother and daughter—because everyone here... they are my family too."
A faint smile softened her face as she motioned him forward. "Come. Let's walk around. I'll show you the beautiful corners of this home, tell you what happens here every day, and maybe even let you meet a few of our family members for a little chatter." Her tone shifted like sunlight breaking through clouds, warm yet carrying the shadow of sorrow, and Aaron followed quietly—still carrying the ache of her words, yet drawn into the strange, healing world she had built.
Aaron walked beside her in silence for a few moments, the stories still burning in his chest. His throat felt tight, words stuck between sorrow and admiration. Finally, he let out a slow breath. "Apoorva... you don't need to apologize," he said quietly. "These aren't just stories. They're truths that most people would rather shut their eyes to. But you... you carry them, you give them a voice, and you still find the strength to smile."
He paused, glancing at her with a kind of awe he couldn't hide. "It hurts me to hear what they've been through. It feels unfair, cruel. But maybe that's why this place exists—because you dared to gather all that brokenness and turn it into something whole. You've given them back what the world stole." His eyes softened. "Honestly? I don't know if I should admire you more for your strength... or ache more for the weight you're carrying alone."
Apoorva replied, "It's not a big deal, Aaron. Actually, I love to look after them. I'm not alone here I have my mom - and Anitha and the caretakers are my family too!"
Then Apoorva led Aaron through the sanctuary, her steps light but purposeful, as if every corner held a story she was eager to share. She showed him the kitchen where meals were prepared with care, the little gardens blooming with color, and the large backyard where the air felt free and open. She pointed out the small play area where children's laughter often echoed, the classroom where lessons kept young minds alive with curiosity, and finally, a modest medical setup where caretakers tended to those in need.
Every space they passed seemed to carry a quiet heartbeat, a rhythm of love and resilience woven into the walls, the soil, the very air. With quiet excitement, Aaron asked her, "Are you alone managing all this with your own money?"
Apoorva smiled gently and replied, "Almost. But sometimes donors lend their helping hand—some give money once a year, others contribute groceries, and some cover medical expenses. But the ownership... that's mine."
"Impressive work, Apoorva!" Aaron said, his eyes bright with excitement. After a pause, he leaned a little closer and added, "Can I share that ownership with you?", Apoorva never expected that question from Aaron. She had brought him here only to attend a small ritual at the Home. But his sudden proposal of sharing the ownership left her caught off guard. For a moment, her calm composure faltered, confusion flickering in her eyes. She didn't have an answer—at least, not yet.
Aaron continued, noticing Apoorva still puzzled, "Just like in the office, where I handle the development work and you manage the team, here it can be the same. I can take care of the day-to-day actions, but you would remain the one managing everything and have the final say." Apoorva listened, still in awe, her mind racing. She was amazed, yet words failed her—she didn't know how to respond to such a generous and unexpected proposal. Apoorva blinked, still processing his words. A soft smile slowly spread across her face as she shook her head gently.
"Aaron... I... I don't know what to say. This... this is not what I imagined," she murmured, her voice tinged with awe and disbelief. Aaron smiled, his excitement calm but genuine. "You don't have to say anything right now. Just think about it. I wanted you to know I'm here to support you, not to take over. You've built something incredible—I just want to help you carry it."
Apoorva's eyes glistened as she looked around the Home, at the children playing, the caretakers busy with gentle care, and the warmth that filled every corner. Slowly, she nodded.
"Okay... let's do this together," she said finally, her voice steady, a mix of resolve and happiness. Aaron's smile widened, and for a moment, the weight of all the hardships and stories around them seemed lighter, as if hope itself had settled into the Home. Apoorva leaned back slightly, her eyes distant, as if searching through the corridors of her own memories. The quiet hum of the sanctuary around them seemed to fade.
"Aaron... there's something I need to tell you," she began, her voice steady but layered with a subtle weight. "I was married once... but it didn't last. Disputes, misunderstandings, things that should have been solved with patience, but they weren't. We divorced, and I chose to live alone after that."
Aaron remained silent, giving her the space to speak, sensing the depth of her pain behind the calm words. "I never thought about marriage again," she continued, her gaze dropping to her hands folded in her lap. "Not for myself. I never sought a husband's presence, not because I didn't want love, but because I realized... I was only ever searching for a father figure for my daughter. Someone who would protect her, guide her, love her as fiercely as I do—but without forcing my own needs or desires on her."
Aaron listened intently, his eyes softening as he absorbed her vulnerability. "And yet," Apoorva said, a faint tension creeping into her voice, "my mother insists. She believes it's time I think of companionship again, that I should not shoulder everything alone. And maybe she's right... but the thought terrifies me. How could anyone truly look after my daughter as I have? How could anyone love her with the same vigilance, the same quiet sacrifice?"
Aaron leaned forward slightly, careful not to interrupt but wanting her to know he was present. "Apoorva," he said softly, "the love you've given your daughter... that is your strength, your truth. Anyone who steps into your life would need to understand that. Not to replace it, but to honor it. To become part of the circle you've built, without breaking it."
Apoorva let out a quiet sigh, the weight in her chest easing just slightly at his words. "I suppose that's what scares me the most," she admitted. "It's not about me. It's about her. Her life, her stability. I can't let anyone compromise that. And yet... the world keeps pushing me to think about myself again. But my daughter... she comes first. Always."
Aaron nodded, a gentle respect in his eyes. "And anyone worth being in your life will see that. They will respect that. They won't try to replace you, or her, or the bond you share. They will simply... walk beside you."
Apoorva's lips curved into a faint, thoughtful smile, tinged with both melancholy and acceptance. "Perhaps one day... someone will walk beside us, without disrupting what we've built. But until then... I must guard what I've fought so hard to protect."
Aaron reached out slightly, placing a reassuring hand near hers, not touching but close enough for connection. "And when that day comes, Apoorva... you'll see. Your wish, your heart... God will surely honor it. Until then, you're not alone." She looked at him, eyes reflecting both gratitude and the gravity of her truth. "Thank you, Aaron. For listening... for understanding. Most people would have judged me long before hearing the whole story."
Aaron smiled softly, almost a whisper of promise. "I don't judge. I only see. And what I see... is extraordinary."
Apoorva listened to Aaron's words carefully—his reassurance was gentle, noble, almost divine in its weight. He spoke as if his role was only to stand beside her pain, never to step into her life. To her ears, there was no trace of longing, no hidden promise, no whisper of love. It was the voice of a companion... not the heartbeat of a man wishing to share her journey. She hadn't expected anything from him—never dared to—but still, somewhere deep inside, her heart ached. That silence where she hoped for more burned quietly within her.
With a heavy sigh tucked behind her smile, they moved on. Lunch was served, conversations flowed lightly, and the house brimmed with its usual warmth. Later, Aaron drove back to his home, his chest full of gratitude and contentment from the positivity he had witnessed, carrying the peace of that place with him. Apoorva, on the other hand, returned with her family, but her soul carried a different weight. One side, Aaron was happy and pleased; on the other, Apoorva's heart throbbed with unspoken sorrow—pained by the absence of the response she longed for from the man she secretly admired.