Najma didn't know what happened after she disappeared.
That was the cruelest part.
She didn't know if her parents searched for her.
Didn't know if they cried.
Didn't know if they blamed themselves—or moved on.
She had been five.
The world had gone dark too fast.
Everything after that was survival.
Saraswati brought out the old photo album after lunch.
Twinkle climbed beside her, curiosity lighting her face.
"Is that me?" Twinkle asked.
"Yes," Saraswati smiled softly. "The day you were born."
Najma watched from a distance, her expression calm.
Too calm.
A photograph slipped from the album.
A little girl stood between Saraswati and Takur, holding their hands proudly.
Twinkle frowned. "Who's that?"
Saraswati's fingers trembled slightly.
"Our first daughter," she said quietly. "She went missing."
Najma's chest tightened—but she didn't react.
"What was her name?" Twinkle asked.
Saraswati hesitated.
Takur answered gently, "Najma."
The name settled heavily in the room.
Twinkle turned slowly toward her.
Najma met her gaze evenly.
She could have spoken then.
Could have asked:
Did you look for me?
Did you ever stop?
But she didn't.
Because she wasn't ready to hear the answers.
"It's a nice name," Najma said softly.
Saraswati stared at her, something aching behind her eyes.
"Yes," she whispered. "It is."
That night, Najma stood alone on the balcony.
The city lights blurred together.
If they suffered, she thought, I don't want to be the reminder.
If they didn't, she wasn't sure she could survive knowing that either.
So she stayed silent.
Not out of strength.
Out of fear.
Takur joined her quietly.
"You seem like someone who carries many questions," he said.
Najma nodded faintly.
"Some questions," she replied, "don't have answers that heal."
Takur didn't understand why—but the words stayed with him.
Inside, Twinkle curled up in bed, hugging Najma's pillow.
"She won't leave," Twinkle whispered confidently.
Saraswati watched her daughter and felt her heart ache in ways she couldn't name.
Najma lay awake long into the night.
She stared at the ceiling.
She didn't know if these people were her parents.
She didn't know if they were guilty or broken.
All she knew was this—
She wasn't ready to ask.
Not yet.