The Sunayna mansion seemed to breathe in slow, uncertain pulses, as though trying to reconcile itself with the weight of the revelations that had just shaken its very walls. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, slicing across the marble floors in golden beams, catching in the edges of gilded frames, and spilling over the silent figures who lingered in the hall. Dust motes danced lazily, suspended in the light like fragile sparks of memory. Yet even this brilliance could not touch the shadow that clung to Maya's absence—the hollow where she had collapsed, leaving a silence so deep it seemed to absorb sound.
Rohini Sunayna, her sari brushing softly against the polished floor, stepped closer to Mahim. Her hands clasped together, trembling slightly, yet her eyes were sharp, seeking the truth behind the unspoken.
"Mahim," she began, her voice threaded with both worry and wonder, "why… is Maya like this?"
Mahim's gaze fell, heavy and burdened, the golden sunlight brushing across his lined face, highlighting every shadow of grief he carried. He swallowed slowly, as though each word would cost him a fragment of himself.
"She… she is not like other children, Baba," he murmured. "She has endured things that no one should ever face. Things that should never exist in this world."
Rohini's fingers flexed slightly, reaching out, yet stopping mid-air, as if she were afraid to intrude on the memory that now lay between them like a living presence. "Tell me," she whispered. "I must understand. I cannot watch her like this… untouchable, unapproachable, distant from everything and everyone. I must know what shaped her, what made her… this way."
Mahim took a deep breath, and the light seemed to hold itself in anticipation, wrapping around him like a cloak of patience. He began, voice low but steady, recounting the tale with painstaking care, each syllable carrying the weight of decades of pain and survival:
"Maya was only one year old when… when her life changed forever. She had a nanny, Meyl. A gentle woman who loved her, sang to her, held her through storms of infancy. One night… she was taken. Kidnapped. By those who called themselves The Holo of Fair."
Rohini's eyes widened, the sunlight catching in the tears that threatened to spill. She pressed her hands together tightly, the fabric of her sari crinkling softly under her fingers.
"They locked her… in a glass cell," Mahim continued, voice tremulous yet unwavering, "with chimera creatures. No name, only a number: 17B. Silence so complete it pressed against her chest, yet she learned quickly… that fear was only the beginning."
Fahad, standing nearby, whispered under his breath, "Seventeen B… that child… that small girl." His voice was soft, incredulous, trembling. Farhan's lips pressed together; even Fahim, usually so composed, looked pale and unsettled.
Mahim's voice cracked slightly. "She tried to escape, time and again. Each attempt was met with cruelty designed to erase her will. Her legs were broken. Her fingers shattered. They used candy to trap her trust, then tore it away with violence. And still… she survived."
"Survived?" Rohini repeated, voice breaking, soft as a breeze brushing over a pond. "At one year old…?"
"She did more than survive," Mahim said, eyes distant, recalling the young girl who had endured horrors beyond imagination. "She fought. She ran barefoot over wires, climbed walls no child should know, felt pain like fire and cold like ice, yet she kept moving. And then… she met someone. A boy. Arib. He was kind, brave… the only light in that endless darkness."
Rohini's hand hovered near Mahim, an unspoken offering of comfort. "And he…?"
"They found him," Mahim said, jaw tightening. "They made her watch while they… poisoned him. She was forced to see everything. She promised she would never run again… but the truth is, she ran anyway. She ran because to stop was to die inside, to surrender the last piece of herself."
Naya's voice broke the heavy silence, almost a whisper of wind through a hallway. "She… she loved, even then?"
Mahim's eyes darkened, shadowed beneath the sunlight streaming in. "Yes. That was her mistake. And the price… was unimaginably high. Arib's body… she buried him with her own hands. Every ounce of tenderness, every shard of trust, every fragment of love… gone. Taken by the cruelty of those who considered compassion a weakness."
Rohini pressed her lips together, blinking rapidly. "Oh… child…" She let her hand fall to her side, unable to cross the threshold of shadowed memory, yet the golden light around her seemed to pulse gently, as if acknowledging the truth she now held.
"She learned," Mahim continued, voice quiet but piercing, "that love was danger. Trust was a weapon turned against her. And through all of this, she became… untouchable. Not because she wishes to be feared, but because she had to be. Because every inch of herself was claimed by pain before she even had a choice."
Fahim muttered under his breath, voice tight with disbelief, "And… and we dare to call her distant… untouchable… when all she survived…"
"Exactly," Mahim said, his eyes locking on his sons, the weight of responsibility palpable. "She survived, and that survival forged boundaries no one else could breach. She steps back not out of disdain, not out of anger, but out of necessity. Every inch of her distance is a shield against a world that took more than it gave."
Rohini's voice softened, trembling with a mixture of awe and sorrow. "Mahim… all this… it explains so much, yet it hurts. To see her like this… to know what she endured… my heart aches for the child she once was."
"And yet," Mahim said, voice growing firm, strong like the sunlight cutting across the marble, "she is here. She survived. She is more than any of us can comprehend. She is strength, clarity, and shadow woven together. She allows us to be near… to witness, to exist in her presence. That is a gift, Baba. That is trust, even if touch is denied."
The Ghosts of Hell shifted slightly, their silent, composed figures leaning in as though drawn toward the story. Even Farhan, who often deflected pain with jokes, swallowed hard, eyes shining with unshed tears.
Rohini took a step closer to Mahim, lowering her voice, almost to herself: "I see it now. She is not cruel. She is… a fortress. Each brick laid by suffering, each window a sliver of light she allows through. That is why… why she keeps us away. That is why she allows only presence."
Mahim nodded slowly. "Yes. And she decides who may enter and who may not. Her power is subtle, quiet, like sunlight on water. She will let no one invade her boundaries, not even those she loves. And we… we must learn to respect that, even if it is hard, even if it hurts."
Rohini's eyes drifted to the empty space where Maya had collapsed earlier, her golden gaze catching the dark ripple of the silk that had hugged the marble. "She is magnificent," she whispered. "Even in her suffering, she carries light. And yet… the world will always see only shadows unless we choose differently."
Fahad's voice, quiet but firm, broke the silence. "Baba… we cannot touch her, yes. But perhaps seeing her… truly seeing her… is the first step. Understanding her past, respecting her present… and allowing her to guide the future."
Fahim nodded, expression tense but contemplative. "She survived horrors that would have shattered all of us. And yet… here she is. Commanding not with fear, but with presence. We owe her… everything. Even our silence, if that is what she asks."
Farhan, ever impulsive, added softly, "I… I think I understand now. She isn't cold. She isn't cruel. She is… careful. And the reason she steps back… is to protect herself, protect the part of her no one else should touch."
Rohini's gaze softened, golden light spilling over her gentle features. "Then let us honor her boundaries. Let us be worthy of the presence she allows. Let us learn that sometimes… love is silent. Sometimes… love is simply being, without touching, without forcing. Sometimes… love is light in the midst of shadow."
Mahim exhaled, a quiet, steadying breath. "That is all she has ever asked. That is all she will ever ask. We must remember this, every day, every moment, until it is etched into our very beings."
The servants, previously silent and cautious, shifted slightly, sensing the change in tone, the acceptance of light over the fear that had long ruled the halls. Even the chandeliers, catching the golden beams, seemed to sparkle more brightly, reflecting hope rather than judgment.
Rohini turned back to Mahim, her voice steady, luminous, carrying the weight of understanding: "Then we begin here, Mahim. We begin now. Not by questioning, not by demanding, not by touching… but by seeing her. By being present in her light, in her shadow, and by letting her define the distance. That is respect. That is love."
Mahim's eyes glistened with unshed tears, catching the sunlight, a reflection of his own unspoken reverence. "Yes, Baba. This… is the only way. Only this way can we honor the child who endured… everything, yet chose to survive. And in her survival… she has gifted us everything we could never earn otherwise."
Rohini glanced toward the staircase, where shadows of absent feet marked the passage Maya had taken, and for the first time, the