After that incident, there were no more problems at school and the day went smoothly.
At least, it should have been.
Students filled the hallways, laughter echoing between the lockers. Teachers called out greetings that sounded cheerful but tired, smiles stretched thin across faces that carried the weight of routine. The smell of chalk, paper, and old wood hung in the air — familiar, almost comforting.
And through it all, Maya moved like a whisper of wind through sunlight.
The other girls watched her — not out of malice, not even out of curiosity, but with a kind of awe that none of them could explain. She never looked back at them, never spoke more than a few words when a teacher called her name. It wasn't arrogance. It wasn't fear. It was simply her — quiet, untouchable, existing in a space just slightly beyond reach.
During class, she sat by the window. Always the window.
Her pen moved slowly across the page — not in notes, but in lines and curves that weren't words at all. Thoughts that belonged to another world, another self.
Outside, the wind pushed at the swings in the empty playground, and the sunlight glimmered on the dust that danced through the air.
When the final bell rang, Maya rose first.
No chatter, no farewell.
She placed her pen inside her bag, closed her notebook, and left — her movements fluid, unhurried, perfectly still inside.
By the time she returned home, the sun had turned soft and amber. The mansion shimmered in the fading light — white walls catching gold, the shadows long and warm. The sound of conversation drifted from the drawing room.
Inside, the family gathered like they had not in weeks.
Mahim sat at the head of the table, spectacles low on his nose, papers spread before him — the rhythm of business a comfort he had missed. Fahim and Fahad leaned forward beside him, discussing numbers in low voices, while Farhan scrolled lazily through his tablet. The air smelled of cardamom tea and baked biscuits, and laughter rippled now and then — careful, like it feared being too loud.
Even the cousins were there — Niya and Ohi, talking softly, and little Raya on the carpet, her small hands rolling marbles that gleamed like tiny worlds.
It was the kind of scene every family dreams of: calm, warm, alive.
And then Maya entered.
The sound of her steps silenced the room.
Not out of fear.
Not anymore.
But out of reverence — a quiet acknowledgment of her presence, the way one instinctively lowers their voice in a temple.
Mahi looked up first.
"You're back, Maya," she said gently. "Come sit. Have some tea."
Maya nodded once. "I'm fine."
Her gaze swept across the room — not stopping long enough to linger, yet touching everyone all the same.
Rahi, seated near the end of the table, had been laughing softly with Farhan about a business contract. But when Maya entered, his voice stilled. He turned slightly, eyes following her like someone watching light move through glass.
"You had a long day?" he asked softly.
Maya didn't meet his eyes. "It was fine."
Mahi tried again, her voice full of motherly concern. "Did anything happen?"
"No."
The word was small. Final.
And somehow, it held more meaning than an entire conversation.
Mahi exhaled quietly and smiled. "That's good."
She wanted to say more — are you eating well, do you feel alright, are you happy? — but she knew none of those words would reach her.
So she didn't try.
Fahad cleared his throat after a moment. "We've been thinking about expanding the import business. There's interest from Singapore."
Mahim looked up. "We'll discuss that later, son. It's too early to finalize."
Farhan leaned back. "Still, it's worth preparing. Maybe Rahi could handle the logistics?"
Rahi smiled faintly. "I could try. It'd be good practice for me."
Mahim nodded, pleased. "That would be useful."
Mahi smiled softly. "You sound more confident now, Rahi."
He laughed lightly. "Maya told me once to learn to stand without fear. I'm trying."
The air stilled again. The family looked toward Maya, who sat quietly at the far end of the table, her teacup untouched.
Fahim tilted his head. "Maya told you that?"
Rahi nodded. "Yes. Before… before everything changed."
Mahi turned to her daughter. "And now?"
Maya's eyes lifted just slightly — meeting Rahi's for the briefest moment.
"Now he doesn't need reminding," she said softly.
The silence that followed wasn't heavy.
It was warm — like the pause after a prayer.
Rahi smiled faintly. "Maybe not. But it helps to hear it sometimes."
Maya didn't reply. She rose quietly, her black shawl brushing the light, and turned toward the staircase.
No one stopped her.
Because they all understood — she lived close enough to protect them, but too far to be touched.
Upstairs, the wind drifted through her window, carrying faint laughter from below.
Maya sat by the glass, her schoolbag untouched beside her. From here, she could see everything: the garden bathed in gold, her family gathered under soft lamps, cups in hand, voices weaving into the rhythm of evening.
They looked peaceful.
And for a moment, she almost smiled.
Not out of joy.
Not sorrow.
Just quiet acceptance — like a sigh released after years of holding breath.
Downstairs, Niya leaned close to her aunt and whispered, "She doesn't talk much, does she?"
Mahi smiled gently. "She talks when words matter. The rest of the time… she listens."
Raya, sitting nearby, looked up. "But she was looking at me yesterday."
"Yes," Mahi said softly. "Sometimes she does."
Rahi, overhearing, looked toward the stairs. "When she does," he murmured, "it feels like the world stops for a moment."
Fahim nodded. "She carries something we don't understand. But she's still ours."
Mahim's voice was quiet, firm. "And we will not lose her again."
Their laughter slowly returned — hesitant, tender, like sunlight after storm.
Upstairs, Maya closed her eyes.
She could hear every word, every sound.
And yet, she stayed still — untouched, silent.
Because this distance was her peace.
And even if no one understood it, she did.
Midnight arrived like a whisper.
The mansion had fallen asleep. The lamps dimmed, the clocks slowed, and the world sank into a hush. Only the wind moved through the garden, carrying the scent of jasmine.
Then — a door opened. Softly. Silently.
Maya stepped into the corridor, barefoot, her black dress gliding against marble. Her hair was loose tonight, spilling like ink down her back. The moonlight followed her like a loyal shadow.
She didn't look back.
Didn't glance toward the rooms where her family dreamed.
The air outside was cool.
The garden shimmered faintly, a sea of pale blossoms.
She walked toward the pond.
The water glowed silver, still and deep. Her reflection looked back — calm, eternal, a mirror of light and shadow.
She knelt beside it and touched the surface. The ripples that spread shimmered faintly, like veins of light tracing the shape of her hand.
"You still remember me," she whispered.
The pond answered with a sigh — a small breeze across its skin.
"You were here when I couldn't be," she said softly. "When even light forgot my face."
A lotus petal drifted down, glowing faintly where it touched her reflection.
Maya smiled — barely.
Behind her, the mansion glowed faintly through the trees — the world she guarded, the peace she bought with her silence.
"You're waking again," she murmured to the rippling light beneath the water. "Not yet. Rest."
The ripples stilled.
From the shadows behind her, a voice called gently.
"Maya?"
It was Rahi.
He had followed, though even he didn't know why.
She didn't turn.
He came closer — slow, careful, the grass bending under his steps.
"It's late," he said softly. "You should rest."
He hesitated. "You still come here every night?"
"Sometimes."
"Why?"
Her eyes stayed on the pond.
"Because the water remembers what I try to forget."
He said nothing for a long time.
Then: "You don't have to carry it alone."
Maya's lips curved faintly. "I've always carried it alone. That's why it lives."
The wind stirred between them. Rahi stepped closer — just one step — and lifted his hand. But before he could touch her, she moved back. Not sharply. Just quietly.
"Don't," she said.
Her voice was soft, but final.
He lowered his hand. His eyes dimmed, but there was no anger.
"You still can't let anyone near?"
"It's not about letting them near," she said. "It's about what happens if they do."
He nodded slowly. He understood, even if it broke something inside him.
After a long silence, he asked, "Do you ever feel lonely, Maya?"
"Loneliness isn't something I feel," she said, her eyes reflecting the moon. "It's something I am."
He looked at her — at the faint light on her skin, the shadow in her eyes.
"You're not like anyone else," he whispered.
"No," she said softly. "But once, I was."
The pond shimmered. The night breathed.
Rahi stepped back. "Goodnight, Maya."
She didn't reply.
When he was gone, she lifted her hand once more — and a small golden light bloomed beneath her palm.
Not her power. Something older. Kinder.
The garden whispered.
The wind bent low.
"I will protect you arab ," she whispered. "Even if it's cost my life. "
The light faded.
The night returned to silence.
The pond remembered.
Only the moon watched.