The city looked beautiful from thirty-two floors above — distant, glittering, untouchable. Just like Aarav Rathore wanted it to be.
He stood by the glass wall of his office, his reflection sharper than the skyline behind it. To the world, he was a man of success — the youngest CEO of Rathore Enterprises, a name people whispered with equal parts admiration and envy. To himself, he was just a man who didn’t know what to do with the silence that followed him everywhere.
The meeting had ended an hour ago, but he hadn’t moved. His jacket hung neatly on the back of the chair, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows. His hands, steady as ever, held a small silver frame. Inside it — a woman’s smile frozen in time.
He turned it face down before the ache could reach his eyes.
A soft knock came at the door. “Sir?”
Kabir Malhotra, his assistant, stepped in — tall, composed, tablet in hand. “The investors from Singapore confirmed tomorrow’s meeting. And…” Kabir paused, glancing down at the screen, “…the daycare called again. Inaaya refused her lunch.”
Aarav didn’t look up. “She’ll eat when she’s hungry.”
“Sir, it’s the third time this week.”
“I said she’ll eat when she’s hungry.” His tone was calm — too calm.
Kabir nodded quietly and left. He knew better than to push. Everyone in the office did. Aarav Rathore wasn’t unkind; he was untouchable.
When the door shut, Aarav sank into his chair and exhaled slowly. He opened his laptop, but the words blurred. Numbers, deadlines, profits — everything that once made sense now felt like a language he no longer understood.
He stared at the silver frame again. Three years, and he still hadn’t found the courage to put it away.
---
🕯️ Rathore Mansion – 8:00 p.m.
The marble floors gleamed beneath the chandelier, and the air smelled faintly of roses and emptiness.
Inaaya, his three-year-old daughter, sat at the dining table with her nanny. A small plate of rice and dal sat untouched in front of her. She pressed her lips together stubbornly, clutching her stuffed elephant with one hand.
“Come on, baby,” the nanny coaxed softly. “Just two spoons?”
Inaaya shook her head. “Papa?”
“He’ll come soon.”
But he didn’t. Not yet.
When Aarav finally walked in, the house went still. The staff straightened, the nanny exhaled in relief, and Inaaya’s big brown eyes lifted to him — searching.
“You didn’t eat again?” he asked gently, crouching beside her chair.
She stared back, silent.
He took the spoon from the nanny, scooped a little rice, and held it out. “Just one bite.”
She hesitated, then leaned forward, opening her mouth.
“There we go,” he murmured. “Good girl.”
For a moment, it almost felt normal. Like the life he’d lost could still be reached if he tried hard enough. But then she looked at him and said, softly,
“Papa, Mama will come soon?”
The spoon stilled mid-air.
Aarav’s throat tightened. “No, sweetheart. Mama’s… she’s with the stars.”
Inaaya frowned. “But stars don’t talk.”
He swallowed. “Sometimes they do. You just have to listen carefully.”
She turned her eyes toward the window, where a few faint stars blinked through the smog. “I can’t hear.”
Neither can I, he thought.
---
🌧️ Later That Night
Rain tapped against the windows, steady and soft. Aarav carried Inaaya upstairs, her head resting on his shoulder, her small hand clutching his collar. He laid her gently on the bed and sat beside her until her breathing slowed into sleep.
The room was quiet except for the hum of the night lamp. Toys lay scattered — a doll, a storybook, a half-built puzzle. He picked up the pieces and fit them together one by one until the picture formed: a butterfly.
“She loved these,” he whispered without realizing it — his words not to Inaaya, but to the memory that haunted the house.
On the opposite wall hung a photograph — Anaya, his late wife, holding a baby wrapped in pink. Her smile was sunlight. Her eyes, peace.
He turned away before his heart could betray him.
---
In the room across the hall, Devika Rathore, his mother, watched quietly through the doorway. Her son’s strength broke her heart — not because it was false, but because it was unending.
She stepped forward softly. “Aarav, eat something.”
He shook his head. “Later.”
“It’s been three years,” she said, not accusing, just aching.
“I know.”
“Then let her go.”
He looked at her, and for the first time that night, a flicker of pain crossed his face. “If I let her go, what will I have left?”
Devika had no answer. She only turned off the lamp and whispered, “You still have a heartbeat, Aarav. That means something.”
When she left, he sat there in the dim room, the city lights painting gold across the floor. He glanced at the sleeping child, then at the closed window. The rain had stopped.
He reached for the photo frame beside the bed — the one he couldn’t face in his office. He traced the smile he once called home.
“Anaya,” he murmured, “I’m trying.”
But even as he said it, he knew he wasn’t.
---
Elsewhere…
Across the city, in a tiny apartment with cream-colored walls and soft music playing, Eda Sharma was marking children’s drawings with a smile.
A cup of chai sat beside her, cooling slowly. The world had been unkind to her too, but she never let it make her unkind in return.
When she looked up from her work, her eyes caught a glimpse of the rain outside. “Beautiful,” she whispered, almost to herself.
She didn’t know that the same rain had just touched a house s
he would soon walk into — the house of the man she once loved and the child who would change her life forever.
---
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