The house did not rush to reclaim sound.
It allowed grief to have its say.
Maya lay curled on the floor, the silver locket pressed against her chest as though it were a seal upon her heart. Her breathing was shallow but steady now, the violent tremors spent, leaving behind only exhaustion—bone-deep, ancient, the kind that does not belong to a single afternoon but to years that never learned how to rest.
Rahi remained where he was, kneeling beside her, unmoving. His cheek still burned faintly where her hands had struck him—not in anger, not in violence, but in confusion, in mourning mistaken for blame. He did not flinch from the memory of it. He would not. If pain had been a language she needed in that moment, he had let her speak.
Rani sat on the floor nearby, arms wrapped around her knees, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. She did not wipe them away. She let them fall, as though they were an offering—proof that pain can be seen, had been received.
Mahim stood frozen at the edge of the room, one hand gripping the back of a chair as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. He had negotiated contracts worth nations, faced storms of loss and betrayal in boardrooms and courts—but nothing had prepared him for the sight of a child breaking under a weight no child should ever carry.
"This house," he thought, though he did not say it aloud, "was meant to be a shelter."
And yet even shelters tremble when lightning strikes too close.
Mahi knelt at Maya's other side at last. Slowly. Carefully. As if approaching a wounded animal that might shatter at the wrong movement. She removed her shawl and placed it gently over Maya's shoulders, not to hide her, but to warm what had gone cold.
"She sleeps," Mahi whispered.
"Not deeply," Fahim replied softly. He had moved closer without anyone noticing, his doctor's eyes trained on the subtle signs—the flutter of lashes, the tension in the jaw, the guarded way Maya's fingers refused to loosen their grip on the locket. "But she is no longer drowning."
Nahir exhaled slowly from where he stood. "Then we stand watch."
No one questioned him.They did not leave.
Time moved, but quietly, like an old monk pacing prayer beads. The sun slid lower, its gold fading into a bruised amber that stretched long shadows across the room. Outside, the sky muttered with distant thunder—far enough to be only a reminder, not a threat.
The servants withdrew first, silently, reverently, as though leaving a shrine. The cousins followed, guided away by Farhan, who pressed a hand to each small shoulder, murmuring reassurances he barely believed himself but knew they needed to hear.
When the room had emptied of everyone except those who understood the weight of survival, Mahim finally spoke again.
"She called him her light," he said quietly. "Not her savior. Not her rescuer. Her light."
Fahad nodded, eyes red but sharp. "Light doesn't fix things," he said. "It only lets you see where you are."
"And where you might go," Fahim added.
Rahi looked down at Maya, his voice hoarse. "She followed it anyway."
"Yes," Nahir said. "That is courage."
Silence returned, but it was no longer suffocating. It was watchful. Protective.
Maya stirred.Just slightly.
Her brow furrowed, lips parting as though a word hovered just beyond reach. Rani leaned forward instantly, heart in her throat, but Maya did not wake. Instead, her fingers tightened once more around the locket, pressing it to her chest.
A sound escaped her—not a sob, not a word—but a breath shaped like a memory.
"Arab…"
The name fell softly, like ash settling after fire.
Mahim closed his eyes.
"He told her to live," he said. "And she is."
"Even when she doesn't want to," Mahi replied.
"Especially then," Fahad said.
Outside, the thunder rolled once—low, distant, restrained. The house did not shake this time. It stood firm, walls holding, roof steady, as though it too had decided that tonight, nothing would fall apart.
Rani reached out at last and gently tucked a strand of hair behind Maya's ear.
"You can rest," she whispered. "We'll remember for you."
Maya did not answer.
But her breathing eased.
And though her face remained pale, hollowed by grief, something in her posture softened—as if, for this one moment, she allowed herself to be held by the world rather than held together by force.
The lightning had passed.
The shadows remained.
But they no longer stood alone.
🍁
Maya woke to the sound of breathing.
Not her own.
Others'.
Soft. Careful. As if the room itself were afraid to wake her too abruptly.
Her eyes opened slowly, lashes lifting against the dim light. The ceiling above her was unfamiliar for half a heartbeat—then memory settled into place, gentle as dust. The living room. The couch. The faint smell of tea and medicine. The low murmur of voices held deliberately at bay.
She did not flinch.
She did not gasp.
She simply breathed.
Around her, everyone froze at once.
Rani had been sitting on the floor, back against the couch, head bowed in exhaustion. She felt the shift before she saw it—the subtle change in the air, the way stillness rearranged itself. She looked up sharply.
"Maya?" she whispered.
Maya turned her head slightly. Her gaze was clear. Quiet. Present.
"Yes," she said.
Just that.
One word.
Normal. Even-toned. As if the afternoon before had not torn the house open at its seams.
Mahim, who had been standing near the window speaking in low tones with the doctor, stopped mid-sentence. Fahad straightened from his chair. Mahi's hand flew to her mouth. Rahi leaned forward instinctively, then stopped himself, remembering how fragile proximity could be.
Fahim was closest.
He had remained seated beside her, notes in his lap, his posture that of a doctor and a brother both—alert, restrained, aching with care.
"How do you feel?" Fahim asked gently.
Maya considered the question, not as someone emerging from confusion, but as someone answering honestly.
"I am awake," she said. Then, after a pause, "And slightly tired."
The doctor—a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a voice trained for calm—exchanged a glance with Fahim.
"That's expected," he said. "You were given a mild sedative. Nothing heavy. Just enough to let your system rest."
Maya turned her head toward him. "Thank you."
The doctor smiled faintly. "You're welcome."
He checked her pulse. Maya did not resist. Did not stiffen. Did not retreat.
"She's stable," the doctor said quietly to Fahim. "Physiologically. But, emotionally…" He hesitated, choosing his words with care. "She has a unique response pattern. Extreme stress triggers dissociation, followed by rapid re-stabilization."
Fahim nodded. "I've observed that."
"She doesn't process trauma the way most patients do," the doctor continued. "It's not suppression. It's… compartmentalization."
Maya listened without comment.
Rani frowned. "Is that dangerous?"
"It can be," the doctor said honestly. "But it can also be a survival mechanism. What matters is what happens in the long term."
"And what happens?" Mahim asked.
The doctor looked at Maya again before answering. "That depends on whether she's allowed to be human when she chooses to be."
No one spoke.
The doctor handed Fahim a small packet of medicine. "These are to be taken only if symptoms return—panic, severe dissociation, insomnia. Not regularly. And not without supervision."
Fahim accepted it. "Understood."
"I'll check in again tomorrow," the doctor said, standing. "For now—quiet. Familiarity. No pressure."
The doctor smiled more fully this time.
When he left, the door closing softly behind him, the room exhaled.
Still, no one rushed toward her.No one asked what she remembered.No one asked what she felt.
They waited.
Maya shifted, pushing herself up slowly into a seated position. Mahi was instantly there, placing a cushion behind her back, adjusting it without fuss, without words.
Chairs creaked. The floor sighed. The house settled into a shape that felt almost… ordinary.
Maya looked around at them—at Rani's red eyes, at Rahi's tense stillness, at Mahim's exhausted concern, at Fahad and Fahim trying very hard not to look like men who had almost lost something irreplaceable.
"You do not need to be careful," Maya said.
Rahi swallowed. "We're not—"
"You are," she said calmly. "Your voices are softer. Your movements are slower. Your eyes avoid my hands."
No one denied it.
"I am functional," Maya continued. "You do not need to adjust yourselves."
Mahim stepped forward slightly. "Maya—"
"I understand why you would," she added, cutting him off gently. "But it is not necessary."
Silence followed.
Then Rani spoke, her voice trembling despite her effort. "Do you… remember?"
Maya met her gaze. "Yes."
A collective breath caught.
"And?" Fahad asked quietly.
Maya thought for a moment. "I remember being overwhelmed. I remember hearing Arab's voice."
Rahi flinched.
Maya noticed.
She looked at him directly. "You were kind to allow me to believe you were him."
Rahi shook his head. "Maya, I didn't—"
"I know," she said. "You corrected me. But you did not push me away."
His eyes burned.
"That mattered."
Rani pressed a hand to her mouth.
Fahim leaned forward slightly. "How do you feel now?"
Maya considered. "Neutral."
Mahi frowned softly. "Neutral isn't the same as okay."
"I did not say I was okay," Maya replied. "I said I am stable."
Mahim closed his eyes briefly. "You don't have to be strong all the time."
Maya looked at him. Truly looked.
"I am not strong," she said. "I am consistent."
The words landed heavily.
Fahad rubbed his face. "You scared us."
Maya tilted her head. "I did not intend to."
"I know," Fahad said. "That's what scared us."
Maya absorbed that quietly.
Rani shifted closer. "You don't have to pretend nothing happened."
Maya's gaze moved slowly around the room again.
"I am not pretending," she said. "I am choosing not to relive it."
Nahir, who had remained silent until now, nodded once. "That's a valid choice."
Maya acknowledged him with a glance.
Mahim spoke again, carefully. "Maya… if something like this happens again—"
"It will," Maya said simply.
The room stilled.
"It is statistically likely," she added. "Triggers exist."
Rani nodded vigorously. "You'll have that."
Rahi added quietly, "Always."
Maya's fingers brushed the chain at her neck. The locket rested there, hidden beneath her clothes.
"Then this is sufficient," she said.
She stood.
No one rushed to help her.
No one stopped her.
She took one step. Then another.
"I am hungry," Maya said.
Mahi let out a shaky laugh that turned into tears halfway through. "Of course you are. I'll make something."
"I will help," Maya said.
Mahi froze. "You don't have to—"
"I know," Maya replied.
That, more than anything else, broke them.
As Maya walked toward the kitchen, the room did not erupt into relief or celebration.
It simply followed her—quietly, reverently—into the next ordinary moment.
The storm had passed.Not because it was gone.