Hinata was five.
At that age, she didn't know how to count days, only moments. And every moment of her life had always looked the same.
She woke up when she wanted to.
She ate when she was hungry.
She slept without fear.
Because her grandmother was always there.
That morning, the house was still quiet when her grandmother opened her eyes. She lay still for a moment, listening to the small, steady breathing beside her. Hinata was asleep, her tiny hands curled near her face, her body warm against the thin cot.
Grandma smiled.
Slowly, carefully, she lifted the blanket and slid out of bed, making sure the wood didn't creak. She moved as if the air itself might wake the child.
"Sleep a little longer," she whispered.
She washed her face, tied her hair back, and stepped into the kitchen. The knife met the cutting board softly—vegetables washed, peeled, sliced with patience. The stove warmed the room, and the smell of food slowly filled the house.
Behind her, bare feet touched the floor.
Grandma didn't turn.
Hinata always came this way.
The child stood there, half-asleep, then walked straight toward her and pressed her face against her waist. Without a word, Grandma shifted, making space. Hinata climbed into her lap as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Good morning, my sunshine," Grandma said.
Hinata didn't answer. She reached for the vegetables instead.
Grandma laughed quietly. "Those are not toys."
Hinata ignored her.
They played like that—pretending, rolling vegetables across the counter, laughing in whispers as if the morning itself was listening.
Later, Grandma led her to the sink.
"Open your mouth," she said softly.
Hinata obeyed, blinking as the toothbrush moved carefully. Then came the bath—warm water, gentle hands, soap wiped away before it could touch her eyes.
"I won't let it hurt," Grandma promised.
Hinata believed her.
Wrapped in clean clothes, Hinata looked up with shining eyes.
"Grandma," she asked, "today we go out?"
Grandma smiled, brushing her hair back."Yes, my princess. We will."
Hinata smiled, bright and small, like the sun learning how to be gentle.
She thought life was always like this.
She didn't know it could end without ending.
The day she was taken away, there was no warning.
Her parents arrived. Voices filled the house—adult voices, firm voices. Words Hinata didn't understand floated above her head.
"She'll come with us now."
Hinata clutched her grandmother's sari.
"Grandma?" she whispered.
Her grandmother knelt down, holding her face, trying to smile even though her eyes were wet.
"It's only for a while," she said. "Be good. I'll see you again."
Hinata nodded, because Grandma said so.
She didn't know how long a while could be.
The new house was different.
The air felt heavier.
She stayed close to the wall, unsure where to stand, unsure where she was allowed to be. When she spoke, her voice sounded wrong to her own ears.
That evening, she moved without thinking—just a child wandering in a place she didn't know.
A hand struck her.
She didn't understand why.
The sound was sharp. Her face burned. Before she could cry, another blow came. Someone shouted. Someone grabbed her arm. She stumbled, fell, was pulled up again.
She didn't know what she had done wrong.
Her body hurt. Her head rang.
All she could think was—
Grandma never hurt me.
Her mother tried to step in. Her grandparents watched.
No one held her.
No one explained.
No one said her name gently.
That night, Hinata lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
The warmth was gone.
The freedom was gone.
And the little girl who believed life was gentle disappeared—without anyone noticing.
From that day on, life was no longer something she lived.
It was something she learned to survive.