The afternoon passed quietly.
After the incident in the living room, Kinjal hadn't come downstairs again. The house went on as usual—staff moving about, lights turning on as evening approached—but her presence was noticeably absent.
She stayed in her room.
By the time dinner was being prepared, the silence had settled in properly.
The doorbell rang.
Rudra looked up as Pankhuri walked in.
"Hi," she said simply.
"Hi," he replied.
Her eyes moved around the living room once before she asked, "Where is she?"
"In her room," Rudra said. "She hasn't come down since afternoon."
Pankhuri nodded. "It's dinner time."
"Sushma di went to call her. She said she wasn't hungry and asked to be left alone."Rudra said.
Pankhuri paused for a moment, then said calmly, "Okay. I'll go check."
There was no accusation in her tone. No concern spoken out loud either. Just quiet awareness.
Rudra stepped aside, letting her pass.
Upstairs, a door remained closed.
Pankhuri knocked once before pushing the door open.
"Hey."
Kinjal looked up from the bed, a little startled.
"Oh… hi. When did you come?"
"Just now," Pankhuri said, walking in. Her eyes went to the untouched plate on the side table.
"I heard you didn't have dinner."
"I'm not hungry," Kinjal replied, turning her gaze away.
Pankhuri sat down beside her. "You can't say that so easily," she said softly. "If you don't eat, how are you supposed to feel better?"
Kinjal shrugged, her fingers twisting the edge of the bedsheet.
"I just… don't feel like it."
Pankhuri watched her for a moment, then asked gently, "Did something happen after I left? Did Rudra say anything to you?"
Kinjal shook her head immediately. "No. He didn't say anything. Nothing at all."
"Then what is it?" Pankhuri asked. "Why do you look like this?"
Kinjal swallowed. Her voice dropped when she finally spoke.
"I want to leave. Being here… it feels suffocating."
Pankhuri's expression softened. "I know," she said quietly. "New places can feel heavy. Especially after everything. But just a few more days, okay?"
She paused, then added carefully, "And where would you go? You told me you don't have anyone here."
Kinjal let out a small, tired breath.
"Yes. But how long can I stay like this? Sooner or later… I'll have to leave anyway."
Her voice didn't sound stubborn.
It sounded tired. And scared.
Pankhuri didn't reply immediately.
She sat there for a moment, letting the words settle, not rushing to fix them. Then she reached out and gently covered Kinjal's hand.
"You're right," she said softly. "You will leave one day."
Kinjal looked up, surprised.
"But not like this," Pankhuri continued. "Not scared. Not hungry. Not feeling like you're trapped."
She picked up the medicine strip from the table and placed it in Kinjal's palm.
"And you won't get there if you don't take care of yourself first."
Her voice stayed calm, steady. "You have medicines to take. If you don't eat anything, how will that even work?"
Kinjal stared at the tablets for a second, then nodded faintly. Not because she was convinced—just because she was tired of resisting.
"I'm not asking you to stay forever," Pankhuri added gently. "Just… stay long enough to breathe."
She stood up slowly. "I'll ask Sushma di to send something light. You don't have to come downstairs."
At the door, she paused and glanced back.
"And Kinjal… you don't have to decide anything tonight."
The door closed softly behind her.
Kinjal remained seated on the bed, the medicine resting in her open palm.
The thought of leaving still pressed heavy on her chest.
But for now, she stayed.
A soft knock came a few minutes later.
Kinjal opened the door just enough to accept the small tray Sushma di held out, murmuring a quiet thank you before closing it again.
She ate slowly, without appetite, more out of habit than hunger.
Only after that did she take the medicine.
She swallowed the medicine with a sip of water and leaned back against the pillows. The room slipped into silence again—thick, unfamiliar.
Sleep didn't come.
Her eyes traced the faint shadows on the ceiling, thoughts circling without direction. Everything felt temporary. The room. The safety. Even this pause in her life.
She turned to her side, pulling the blanket closer.
That was when she heard it.
At first, it was barely there—a sound so soft she wondered if she imagined it.
Then it grew clearer.
Strings.
A guitar.
The melody travelled through the quiet house, slipping through the walls, gentle and unhurried.
Somewhere in the house, someone was playing—slow, unguarded, as if the night itself were listening.
She didn't move. She didn't try to understand why it calmed her.
The music carried no questions, no demands.
The sound wrapped around her gently, like the kind of comfort she hadn't known she was craving.
"Jo dard ko sukoon de, woh dard tumse milta hai…"
"ae dil zara itna bata, kyun ishq unse hota hai..."
The rest of the song faded into soft notes she didn't try to follow.
Her breathing slowed. The tightness in her chest eased, just enough.
For the first time that night, she didn't feel like she had to stay awake to protect herself.
Sleep found her quietly.
And for a few fragile hours, she rested.
***
In his room, Rudraksh sat on the edge of his bed, the guitar resting against his knee.
The room around him was dim, lights low, the world finally quiet enough to breathe.
He let his fingers move on their own, not thinking about chords or rhythm. Just sound. Just release.
He didn't know when the song had started or how long he'd been playing.
He also didn't stop.
Somewhere in the house, a door creaked faintly. Then nothing.
He slowed, letting the last note linger before it disappeared into the silence.
Rudraksh rested his forearm against the guitar, staring ahead.
He told himself it was habit. That music had always been how he ended his nights.
Still, when the house remained quiet, he didn't pick the guitar up again.
He switched off the light and lay back, eyes closing.
Neither of them knew it yet, but something in the quiet had shifted.
This chapter was meant to be quiet.
Not every moment needs answers—some just offer a pause.
Thank you for staying with the silence 🤍