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I've been wanting to write such a story for so long. Hope y'all like it.

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The hospital was unnervingly quiet that day.

Not the kind of quiet that brought peace, the kind that made you suspicious. The kind that made you check your pager twice, convinced you'd missed an emergency.

Riaan Talwar had learned early in his residency that silence in a hospital was rarely a good sign. It meant the chaos was just waiting, biding its time.

But today, for once, the universe had granted him mercy.

His shift had ended without a single code blue. No frantic nurses. No screaming relatives. Just a smooth, textbook day of shadowing Dr. Sharma, one of the senior surgeons who had let him assist in a routine surgery. Riaan's hands still tingled with the memory of holding the scalpel, feeling the weight of responsibility in his palms. He'd learned more in those three hours than he had in weeks of lectures.

Progress, he thought, shutting his locker with a soft click. One surgery at a time.

The locker room was empty now, the fluorescent lights humming overhead like a distant swarm of bees. He tugged off his surgical apron, still pristine, no bloodstains today and folded it with the precision his mother had drilled into him since childhood.

Everything had its place. Everything had its order. It was the only way to survive.

His mother had taught him that too.

He was reaching for his bag when he heard it.

A sound so faint, so fragile, that he almost convinced himself he'd imagined it.

But then it came again: a muffled, broken gasp, like someone trying to swallow their own breath. It was coming from Section B. The senior doctor's locker section.

Riaan froze.

Every instinct told him to walk away. This wasn't his business. Section B was off-limits to junior staff, and whatever was happening behind those doors was none of his concern. He'd worked in this hospital long enough to know that private pain was a currency exchanged behind closed doors. You didn't go looking for it.

But his feet moved anyway.

He stepped quietly, his sneakers making no sound against the polished linoleum floor. The cry grew louder as he approached the door, and he caught himself holding his breath. The door to Section B was slightly ajar, just an inch and through the gap, he could see a figure huddled in the far corner.

A girl.

She was crouched against the lockers, her knees pulled tight to her chest, her face buried in her arms. Her shoulders shook violently, but she had her palm pressed hard against her mouth, trying, desperately trying to silence herself.

But the tears didn't care.

They spilled down her cheeks, catching the harsh fluorescent light, making her face glisten like she'd been caught in rain. Her hair was a disheveled mess, dark strands plastered to her damp skin. She was wearing a simple kurta, faded blue, and her hands, trembling against her knees, were small. Delicate.

He watched her for what felt like an eternity.

She didn't look up. Didn't sense his presence. She just kept crying, silent, agonized, raw. No dramatic wails. No theatrical grief. Just a girl breaking apart in the corner of a cold hospital locker room because she didn't have anywhere else to go.

Riaan's chest tightened.

He'd seen grief before. So much of it. In this hospital, death was a daily visitor, and he'd grown numb to the tear-streaked faces of families losing their loved ones. He'd learned to compartmentalize, to offer condolences with a straight face and then walk away without carrying the weight home.

But this was different.

She wasn't performing her grief for anyone. She wasn't demanding answers or pointing fingers. She was just... breaking. Alone. In secret. Like she didn't believe she deserved to be seen.

And Riaan couldn't look away.

Then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.

She lifted her head, her face blotchy and swollen, but her eyes? God, her eyes were fierce. They were the kind of eyes that had seen too much too young, the kind that had learned to build walls out of rubble. She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, her movements quick and practiced. Like she'd done this a thousand times before.

She took a breath. Then another. Steadied herself.

And stood up.

Riaan stepped back instinctively, pressing himself against the wall of Section A. His heart hammered against his ribs, and he didn't understand why. He wasn't doing anything wrong. He hadn't intruded. He'd just... watched.

But he felt guilty anyway.

He heard her footsteps, quick, determined as she walked toward the door. He waited until he heard it shut before stepping out of Section A himself, his feet moving on autopilot, leading him into the corridor.

And that's when he saw her.

She was standing by a stretcher, her spine straight as a rod, her face, that face—completely blank. Not a hint of the tears he'd just witnessed. Not a trace of the girl who had been suffocating on her own sobs moments ago.

On the stretcher lay a body. A young woman, wrapped in a white sheet, her face pale and peaceful.

Dead.

So clearly dead that Riaan felt a chill run down his spine.

Dr. Rajan Kapoor was beside the stretcher, his expression schooled into that practiced mask of professional sympathy that doctors wore like armor.

"I'm so sorry," Dr. Kapoor said softly. "We tried our best."

The girl, the one from the locker room looked at him. Her eyes were dry now. Hollow. But there was something burning in them that made Riaan's breath catch.

"You should say that," she said, her voice steady and cold, "if you'd actually saved her... How would we know what your best is, Doctor?"

Dr. Kapoor flinched.

"It's always the patient's condition that fails, isn't it? Never the treatment. Never the doctors." She gave a faint smile, bitter, shattered, beautiful. "I know what my sister's condition was. You've been treating her for three months. And every single time, you said..." Her voice cracked, just a little. "You said, 'She's going to be alright.'"

She paused. Swallowed hard.

"Maybe she's alright now. In heaven."

Dr. Kapoor opened his mouth, closed it, and said nothing. What could he say? Riaan had heard those same empty reassurances a hundred times, and he knew how hollow they tasted.

Then the girl reached down and grabbed her sister's hand. It was limp, lifeless, but she held it like it was the most precious thing in the world. She leaned in, her forehead nearly touching the corpse's, and whispered something in Hindi.

"Tumne mujhe fir anaath kar diya, Di. Aur iss baar mujhe koi nahi hoga sambhalne ke liye."

(You've made me an orphan all over again, Sis. And this time, there will be no one to look after me.)

Riaan felt the words hit him like a physical blow. He didn't know why. He didn't know her. But the raw, aching loneliness in her voice, it shattered something inside him he'd never spoken aloud.

She straightened up, released her sister's hand, and began to wheel the stretcher away. She walked slowly, deliberately, her head held high. Not a single tear in sight.

And Riaan could only stand there, frozen, watching her disappear down the corridor.

After she was gone, Riaan found himself walking toward Dr. Kapoor, who was still standing in the same spot, rubbing his temples tiredly.

"What happened?" Riaan asked, his voice coming out rougher than he'd intended.

Dr. Kapoor looked up, startled. "Dr. Talwar. I didn't see you there."

"Just finished my shift." Riaan gestured vaguely toward the stretcher. "The patient?"

"A Glioblastoma. Stage four." Dr. Kapoor sighed heavily. "She'd been in treatment for weeks, but the improvement was slow. Her nervous system was too weak. Today, she just... gave out."

Riaan nodded, his throat tight. "And the other girl?"

"The younger sister. Used to come with her for every appointment. Every single one." Dr. Kapoor shook his head, a hint of bewildered admiration creeping into his voice. "But she never cried. Not once. She was always so... composed. Stubborn. Even when we gave her the worst news, she'd just nod and say, 'Okay.'"

Riaan's mind flashed back to the locker room. To the girl huddled in the corner, desperately muffling her sobs.

She hadn't shed a single tear?

"She didn't cry," Riaan said slowly, testing the words. "Even now?"

"Not a drop," Dr. Kapoor confirmed. "She just spoke. Like we'd failed her. And maybe we did." He shrugged helplessly. "But you know how it is. Families say all kinds of things when they're grieving. We're used to it."

He patted Riaan's shoulder and walked away, leaving Riaan alone in the silent corridor.

Riaan stood there for a long time, staring at the empty space where the stretcher had been.

He thought about the girl. Her tears. Her silence. Her voice.

"Tumne mujhe fir anaath kar diya."

(You've made me an orphan again.)

But she wasn't an orphan, was she? She had a sister. Had. Past tense. And now? Now she had no one.

Riaan understood that feeling better than he wanted to admit.

He thought about his own father the man who had looked him in the eye and said, "You're not my son." He thought about his mother, who had spent years raising him alone, her tears shed behind closed doors, just like that girl's. He thought about the loneliness that had become his constant companion, the emptiness he filled with work and silence and the relentless pursuit of being enough.

He didn't know why that girl's grief had pierced through his armor. But it had.

And he couldn't shake the image of her face, composed one moment, shattered the next.

Who are you? he wondered.

He didn't know it then, but that question would haunt him for weeks to come.

And the answer would change everything.

⁞⁞⁞⁞

The drive home was a blur.

Riaan's hands moved on autopilot, his benz car gliding through the familiar streets of South Delhi, past the old banyan trees and colonial-era bungalows that had stood for over a century. But his mind was still trapped in that hospital corridor. Still seeing her face. Still hearing those words.

"Tumne mujhe fir anaath kar diya."

He gripped the steering wheel tighter and forced himself to focus on the road.

The Talwar mansion appeared like it always did, a sprawling testament to old money and older traditions. It wasn't flashy like his father's modern palace. No glass facades or minimalist architecture. This was a home built in the 1940s, with red brick walls covered in creeping ivy, arched windows that caught the golden evening light, and a veranda where his nani still sat every morning with her chai and newspaper.

It was the only home Riaan had ever known.

His mother had brought him here when he was eight years old, clutching his small hand, her eyes red but her chin held high. She'd stood at the entrance and announced to her parents: "I'm done. He's not my husband anymore. But this boy—this boy is mine. And I'll raise him alone if I have to."

His nana had simply opened his arms and said, "You're not alone, Rukmini. You never were."

And Riaan had never left.

He parked the car and walked through the heavy oak doors, the familiar scent of sandalwood and freshly brewed chai washing over him. The living room was bathed in soft lamplight, his nani's favourite crystal chandelier casting dancing shadows on the walls. Everything was exactly where it should be, the antique grandfather clock ticking steadily in the corner, the family portraits lining the staircase, the Kashmiri carpets his mausi had brought back from her honeymoon.

It was perfect.

Riaan dropped his bag by the table and collapsed onto the plush velvet couch, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. His head was heavy. Too heavy. Images flickered behind his eyelids, the girl's tear-streaked face, her sister's pale corpse, the way she'd held that limp hand like she could will it back to life.

He didn't even know her name.

A soft weight settled beside him, and he felt familiar, wrinkled fingers brush through his hair. He opened his eyes to find his nani looking down at him, her silver-streaked hair neatly pinned, her eyes still sharp despite her seventy-eight years. She was wearing her usual cotton saree, a soft lavender that matched her gentle nature.

"Ahhhh, Nani..." Riaan groaned, instinctively shifting to rest his head on her lap. "You're damn amazing at this."

His nani chuckled, her fingers resuming their steady rhythm, massaging his scalp with the kind of practised tenderness that only grandmothers possessed. "Aaj bahoot thak gayi hain kya?" she asked softly.

(Tired so much today?)

Riaan closed his eyes. "Haan," he murmured. "Shift was... long."

He didn't tell her about the girl. He didn't tell her about the tears he'd witnessed, or the way they'd burrowed under his skin like splinters he couldn't remove. Some things were too raw to speak aloud. Even to his nani.

The front door opened, and his mother's voice floated in. "Riaan? I heard you worked with Dr. Sharma today?"

Rukmini Talwar appeared in the archway, still in her work clothes, a crisp pink kurti paired with comfortable trousers, her reading glasses perched on her head. Despite being forty-eight, she had the energy of someone twenty years younger, her physiotherapy practice keeping her on her feet from sunrise to sunset. She was beautiful in an understated way, with Riaan's same sharp cheekbones and intense dark eyes.

Riaan lifted his head slightly. "Haan, Mumma. He was very strict, but I learned a lot today."

"Strict?" Rukmini smiled as she crossed the room, settling onto the couch beside him. "He called me this evening. Said you were the most focused junior he'd ever trained. He was praising you so much, I thought my phone was going to overheat."

Riaan felt warmth spread through his chest. "He said that?"

"He said that." Rukmini reached over and tugged his legs into her lap, untying his shoelaces.

"Mumma, you're—" Riaan started to protest, but Rukmini shot him a look that silenced him immediately.

"What? My son can't be pampered?" She began massaging his calves with firm, practised strokes, her physiotherapist's fingers finding all the right pressure points. "You're twenty-six, not sixty-six. Let your mother take care of you."

Riaan sighed, sinking deeper into the cushions. Between his nani's fingers in his hair and his mother's hands on his legs, he felt the tension of the day slowly unspool. For a moment, he could almost forget the hospital. Forget the girl. Forget everything.

And then his mother spoke again, her voice too casual. Too deliberate. "So... you know Dr. Sharma has a daughter?"

Riaan's eyes snapped open. "Mumma..."

"She's a doctor too. An ophthalmologist. Very accomplished. She works at AIIMS, actually, in the eye department."

"Mumma." Riaan sat up abruptly, dislodging both women's hands. "Kya kehna chahti ho?"

(What are you trying to say?)

Rukmini exchanged a quick glance with her mother. The kind of glance that said we've discussed this. Riaan's stomach tightened.

"I'm just saying," Rukmini continued, her voice carefully light, "if you meet her once, you'll definitely like her. She's smart, beautiful, and her family is—"

"Mumma." Riaan's voice was sharp now. "I told you. I'm not marrying anyone in this lifetime."

The words hung in the air like a blade.

Rukmini's smile faltered. "Beta, all marriages wouldn't end up like mine. Look at your nana and nani. Look at your mausa and mausi. They're happy. Mine was just—"

"Just a part of the worst cases," Riaan cut her off, his jaw tight. "That's what you said. But I don't want to become a part of that worst case."

He stood up fast, his legs carrying him toward the staircase before his mother could respond.

"Riaan!" Rukmini called after him.

"I'm going to my room," he said without turning back. "Goodnight."

Inside his room, Riaan stood still.

The walls were lined with bookshelves, medical textbooks, philosophy, the occasional thriller his mausi smuggled him. His desk was neat, his bed made with military precision. Everything in order. Everything controlled.

But inside, he was chaos.

He walked to the window and stared out at the moonlit garden, his reflection ghosting against the glass. He remembered the way his parents used to fight, the plates crashing, the accusations flying, his father's cold voice saying, "You're not my son."

He'd been seven years old, standing at the top of the stairs, clutching his toy stethoscope.

He'd watched his mother crumble.
He'd watched his father walk away.

And he'd promised himself, right then, right there that he would never become that man. He would never love someone enough to hurt them. He would never trap someone in a marriage that turned into a battlefield. He would never make a child watch their parents tear each other apart.

It was safer to be alone. It was easier.

Riaan pressed his forehead against the cold glass and closed his eyes.

⁞⁞⁞⁞

The next morning came too quickly.

Riaan had barely slept, tossing and turning until the first rays of sunlight crept through his curtains. He'd given up at 5 AM, downed two cups of black coffee, and driven to the hospital before most of the staff had even arrived.

But the exhaustion didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the work.

He was reviewing patient files when Dr. Sharma's voice cut through the quiet. "Riaan. Emergency case. Come with me."

Riaan looked up, instantly alert. "What happened, Doctor?"

"Old woman at an orphanage. Possible stroke. The staff called for immediate assistance." Dr. Sharma was already grabbing his bag, his expression all business. "We don't know the severity. Let's move."

Riaan nodded, grabbing his own equipment and falling into step behind his senior. They rushed through the corridors, out to the ambulance bay, and into the waiting vehicle. The siren wailed as they cut through Delhi's morning traffic, but Riaan's mind was elsewhere.

Orphanage.

The word landed like a stone in his chest.

He thought of the girl from yesterday. The way she'd called herself an orphan.

Riaan shook his head, forcing the image away. Focus. Patient first. Always.

The ambulance pulled up to a massive gate, and Riaan's eyebrows shot up in surprise. This wasn't the cramped, rundown orphanage he'd expected. It was a sprawling estate, old money architecture, sprawling gardens, children's laughter echoing from somewhere inside. It looked more like a joint family mansion than an institution. But it was old. Too old. Too weak.

They were ushered inside quickly, led to a quiet room where an elderly woman lay on a bed, her face pale but conscious. Dr. Sharma checked her pulse, her pupils, her vitals, and within minutes, his expression relaxed.

"Just a mild stroke," he announced. "Nothing to worry about. With proper rest and medication, she'll recover. But you need to make sure she isn't stressed again."

The orphanage staff sighed in relief, offering tea and coffee to the medical team. The tension dissolved into polite conversation, but Riaan barely heard any of it.

Something was pulling him away.

He excused himself quietly, claiming he needed to use the restroom, but his feet carried him in the opposite direction. Through winding corridors, past colourful murals painted by tiny hands, past a courtyard where children were playing cricket. The mansion was alive with warmth, with family in a way that felt foreign and familiar all at once.

And then he heard it.

A faint melody, drifting down from somewhere above.

A piano.

Riaan froze mid-step. The song was achingly familiar. The soft, yearning notes floated through the air like whispered confessions, filling every corner of the corridor with something fragile and beautiful.

─ ❝Phir le aaya dil majboor kya keeje
Raas na aaya rehna door kya keeje❞

- Phir Le Aya Dil (Barfi!)

He didn't know why he followed the sound.

He didn't know why his heart was suddenly pounding against his ribs.

He climbed the staircase slowly, each step deliberate, each note pulling him closer. The music grew louder, more distinct, and Riaan's breath caught in his throat as he reached the top floor.

─ ❝Kismat ko hai yeh manzoor kya keeje
Milte rahe hum badastoor kya keeje❞

A door stood slightly ajar.

Through the gap, golden sunlight streamed into a spacious room. A grand piano sat by the window, its black surface gleaming. And sitting before it, her fingers dancing across the ivory keys like she was born to do this, was the girl.

The girl from the hospital.

But she wasn't crying now.

She was wearing a simple crop top and jeans, her hair loose and flowing down her back. Her eyes were closed, her expression peaceful, her entire being lost in the music. She played with a kind of raw emotion that made Riaan's chest ache, each note a story, each chord a heartbeat.

How is this the same girl who broke down in a locker room?

He stood frozen at the door, unable to move, unable to breathe.

...

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