In the quiet village of Velhira, tucked between misty hills and whispering forests, an old Wooden house stood at the edge of the riverbank. Time had weathered its wooden walls, and vines clung to its roof like memories refusing to fade.
The villagers called it Chhāya Vātika, a House of Forgotten Children — a home for those whose families had vanished, abandoned them, or never returned. Some were left as babies on doorsteps; others were simply discarded like they didn't belong in the world. Thirty children lived there. Each one with stories they no longer told.
Among them was a beautiful yet strong-willed girl with deep brown eyes and hair like a stormcloud — always tangled, always wild. Asha.
But she wasn't just another child in the shadows. She was the one they whispered about — a disaster, a curse, a shadow in the light. It was as if every misfortune, every cruel word, every cold glance had been crafted just for her. No matter what she did — whether she helped the elders carry water, cleaned the temple steps, or gave up her blanket for a shivering child — the label never changed.
"Cursed," they said.
"Unlucky."
When the children gathered for meals, they refused to sit near her; most of the time, they even refused to give her food. Their eyes darted away, and their hands pulled their plates closer. Even she is not allowed to sleep near them! Everybody tells her to stay far away from them. So, without complaint, Asha began walking towards the riverside alone each day. She never complained about anything to them. Even if she wants to, she can't do that; she is not allowed to talk back to them. sitting beneath the wide old tree, where the wind didn't judge and the river always listened.
She wasn't loud. She wasn't dangerous. She was simply... different.
They think and act like this, maybe because of the events that happened after Asha arrived in this house.
Despite the discrimination from them, she stood strong and brave. She never shouted. She never begged. She simply endured — like a stone standing alone in the storm.
Asha was fifteen. She had no family, no friends. But she had her thoughts. Her curiosity. Her imagination.
And that was what made the elders frustrated.
She asked too many questions.
"Who invented weapons and why?"
"What makes humans so special?"
"If dreams aren't real, why do they feel more alive than this world?"
No one wanted to talk to her, or simply because they can't!
In Velhira, questions were more dangerous than weapons.
No one spoke of history. No one dared to.
Those who tried — vanished. Silenced before their curiosity could echo. Some said they were executed. Others whispered that they simply... disappeared.
It was as if the past itself was a curse — a locked vault that no one was meant to open.
But Asha couldn't stop wondering. The pull wasn't just in her thoughts anymore — it crept into her dreams. Voices murmured in ancient tongues. Symbols floated across the darkness of her sleep. She saw doors — distant, hidden in shifting mist — and something behind them... watching.
And then, one night —
The mist answered back.
That night, beneath the old tree, Asha couldn't sleep. Not because of the usual whispers from the river or the cold breeze slipping through the cracked stone walls — but because her chest ached with a strange kind of pull. Like something was missing. Or waiting.
When she finally drifted into sleep, it wasn't like other nights.
There were no dreams of riverside winds or the open skies she longed to fly through.
Instead, she stood in the middle of a vast nothingness — a place without sky or ground, where her breath echoed like thunder.
And then, before her, a door appeared.
Not just any door.
It was ancient, carved from black stone with golden markings that pulsed like veins. Symbols she didn't recognize burned across its surface in blue and gold fire. Yet they felt... familiar. As if they had once been hers.
Then came a voice — low and layered, like many mouths speaking at once. The sound vibrated through her bones, through her blood.
"The one who remembers..." it whispered.
"You are not cursed…"
Suddenly, Asha's eyes shot open.
Her chest heaved as if her lungs had been starved of air.
But something was wrong. Very wrong.
The skies above were black — not with night, but with smoke and spiraling wind. A giant storm was charging straight toward the riverbank, swallowing everything in its path. Trees ripped from their roots flew through the air like feathers. Animals fled in all directions. Birds shrieked and scattered. The river churned violently.
The entire village was in panic — people rushing toward their homes, slamming doors, locking windows. But no one called for her.
No one even looked in her direction.
She turned to run back to the house, but saw all the lights go out.
The door she had once called home... was closed.
Shut. Sealed. Abandoned.
They had left her to die.
Her legs gave out beneath her. She collapsed into the dirt, knees shaking, heart crumbling. She tried to stand — but her legs refused to move. It was as if her body had betrayed her, just like the world had.
Tears streamed down her face, not just from fear — but from the cruel realization that they wanted this.
This storm was a blessing to them. An excuse.
No one would blame them if the cursed child disappeared in a storm.
Her breath grew heavier. Her vision blurred. Her mind screamed for her to run, but her body had given up.
This is it, she thought. This is how I die.
They always said she was cursed. That she wasn't meant to live.
And maybe... they were right.
Her lips trembled as she whispered to the gods she had once believed in:
" Maybe this was my fate all along…
Maybe they were right. I'm just a cursed child.
A mistake.
But still… I wanted to live a little longer.
I wanted to know why my parents left me.
I wanted to know if I was ever... loved. "
As the wind howled and darkness swallowed the horizon,
just before everything faded—
A voice, clear and loud, echoed from the storm:
"Why…!"