Six months later.
The town had changed. Or maybe it was Zara who had. The city's noise didn't scare her anymore—it simply existed like distant thunder on a dry day. She'd moved to a quieter district, taken up work in a semi-rural outreach hospital where patients still said "thank you," and silence was something you had to listen for.
There were no codes shouted overhead. No lights flashing. No scream of steel beds wheeling down narrow corridors. Just the hush of rubber soles, the beep of stable vitals, and the rustle of leaves outside the window.
She stood that morning before her mirror, tying her scarf behind her head—a new routine she'd adopted. Her hair had grown back slowly after stress took it. Everything was growing again, piece by piece.
Zara reached for her stethoscope, but paused. Her eyes locked with her own reflection.
A survivor.
She hadn't dated since. Hadn't allowed anyone in. But she smiled more easily now. Slept deeper. Ate without forcing herself.
That morning was different. A man walked into the outreach unit just before noon. Tall. Quiet. Carried a little boy on his back and spoke softly.
"I think it's a chest infection," he said, gently lowering the boy onto the bench.
Zara ran the usual checks. The boy had mild pneumonia—treatable. She prescribed antibiotics, advised fluids, and sat beside him while his father filled the form.
"Thank you," the man said with a nod. "It's hard getting him to the general hospital."
Zara smiled. "That's why we're here. To make it easier."
When he left, she looked at the boy's name on the file.
Micah Ajayi.
Her heart jolted.
Ajayi.
Not a rare name. But still. Her hands trembled slightly as she closed the file. Coincidence, she told herself.
She walked to her office later that day to find a letter on her desk. No name. Just her first name, written in block letters: ZARA
She stared at it.
She didn't recognize the handwriting.
She opened it slowly.
"I thought you deserved the truth. But I was too much of a coward to say it back then. What happened in Department C wasn't an accident. You were never supposed to be there. The fire wasn't meant for you."
"But you survived it. And that's why this letter even exists. I'm far away now. But I watch. Not to haunt—but to remind myself that I left behind the one person who still had light when we all turned to smoke."
"There's more you don't know. One day, I'll be brave enough to tell you in person. Until then, keep surviving. Keep living."
—J.
Zara folded the letter with trembling hands.
The fire was supposed to be the end.
But it was the beginning of something else.
She walked out to the hallway, watching children play under the shade of a neem tree.
The quiet no longer scared her.
It felt earned.
And somewhere inside her, a door cracked open again.
Not fully. But enough.
For light to come in.