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The hospital room was drenched in agony  filled with the haunting echoes of Prisha’s unrelenting cries her voice cracking, breaking, collapsing under the weight of her grief. 

She sat on the cold floor, her arms wrapped around herself, shivering violently  her entire body wrecked with pain, soaked in misery. 

The room was a mess—the aftermath of her anguish scattered across the floor like shattered pieces of her soul. 

Blood dripped from her hands. 

Not from wounds inflicted by another, but from her own destruction—from the jagged edges of broken glass, from the sharp truth that had torn through her like a blade. 

And then—her voice rang out again, raw, shaking, filled with torment that refused to stop.

"I k-killed my b-a-by…" 

The words were chanted repeated over and over each syllable more broken, more desperate, more unbearable than the last. 

Her family watched helplessly their faces pale, their own grief swallowing them whole—but nothing, nothing, could compare to what she was feeling. 

She wasn’t ready to understand. 

Wasn’t ready to listen. 

Wasn’t ready to believe in anything except the suffering consuming her completely. 

She flinched, her breath coming in sharp gasps, as her lips parted again. 

"I k-killed my Ru-dhra-nsh…" 

The words were madness, were sorrow, were the end of pain that couldn’t be silenced. 

And she didn’t let anyone come near her.

She sat there, drowning in her grief, refusing to be comforted, refusing to be held, refusing to be saved.

The shattered glass around her reflected her brokenness, the pieces glinting in the dim light, as if mocking her—as if reminding her of everything she had lost. 

Then—Yuvaan moved. 

Slowly. Carefully. 

He lowered himself onto the floor, his breath steady, his eyes fixed on her, his body tense but controlled. 

He didn’t let her see him moving. 

Didn’t let her realize he was coming closer. 

Because he knew. 

She would hurt herself more if he wasn’t careful. 

And she had already done enough damage. 

Behind them, Soumya and Abhinash stood frozen, their own attempts to soothe her failing over and over again. 

Then—Abhinash spoke.

His voice was heavy, trembling, filled with love, desperation, regret.

"You didn’t, Prisha." 

The words carried the weight of a father’s plea of a man begging his daughter to listen, begging her to come back. 

"Don’t blame yourself.

A pause. 

A breath. 

Then—his voice softened further, fragile but unrelenting. 

"Come here, beta." 

He spread his arms—offering her warmth, offering her safety, offering her everything she had lost.

She stiffened, her shoulders curled inward, her body refusing to move. 

Then—her eyes flickered downward. 

And there—lying on the cold floor, gleaming under the harsh hospital light—was a knife.

Prisha’s voice was barely a whisper, fragile, drowning in the weight of her own despair, the words falling from her lips like shattered glass. 

"I k-killed my baby…" 

Her breath hitched, her fingers trembling, her entire body shaking uncontrollably. 

"I am bad… I am worse… I k-killed my husband and my unborn child…

Her voice cracked, her chest tightening, her vision blurring with tears she couldn’t stop. 

Then—her fingers curled around the cold steel of the knife. 

The moment she grabbed it—terror erupted in the room. 

"No, Prisha!" 

Shreyansh’s scream shattered the air, filled with panic, urgency, desperation. 

He lunged forward, his breath uneven, his heart pounding violently against his ribs. 

He couldn’t see her like this. 

Not like this. 

Not when she was already lost  not when she had already given up. 

Because with Rudhransh and their baby gone,Prisha was gone, too—only her body remained.

Her soul? 

Her heart? 

Her will to live? 

It had died with them. 

"Shhh… don’t, Prisha… please, baccha…" 

Abhinash’s voice was raw, thick with emotion, with grief, with regret, as he tried to reach out to her—to bring her back from the darkness swallowing her whole. 

His hands trembled as he spread his arms toward her, a silent plea, a desperate father begging for his child not to slip away completely. 

The air was thick with panic, with fear, with the unbearable weight of heartbreak. 

Prisha sat motionless, the cold knife clutched in her trembling hands, her shoulders shaking violently as sobs wracked through her fragile body. 

"I k-killed my baby…" 

Her voice was barely a whisper, a broken chant, filled with regret that refused to leave her lips. 

She flinched, her breath hitching, her fingers tightening around the knife, as if this was the only way to fix the pain—the only way to make it all go away.

The moment she moved even the slightest bit—Yuvaan reacted. 

Fast. 

Without hesitation. 

He dropped to his knees, his breath ragged, his heartbeat thundering violently, as he reached forward his fingers gripping her wrists tightly before she could do anything.

"Prisha!" 

His voice was desperate, filled with a kind of urgency that only comes when you realize you're seconds away from losing someone forever. 

She gasped—startled, confused, but still too lost in her pain to process what was happening. 

Her eyes flashed upward, meeting his. 

Tear-filled. 

Shattered. 

Hopeless. 

"Let it go, Baccha…"

His voice broke, his throat tightening as he gently but firmly tried to loosen her grip on the knife. 

"Please…" 

Her fingers shook, hesitation flickering through her broken gaze but then—her body went rigid again.

She shook her head violently  fresh tears slipping down her cheeks, her breath turning shallower, quicker, unstable.

"No…" 

Her voice cracked  her shoulders trembling, her grip tightening once more. 

"I don’t deserve to live." 

And that was the moment—the moment that shattered Yuvaan completely. 

He inhaled sharply, his fingers still holding onto her wrists, his mind racing, his emotions drowning him. 

He couldn’t let this happen.

He wouldn’t. 

A strangled breath escaped his lips, his grip tightening just slightly. 

"You do, Prisha." 

She stiffened. 

Her lips parted slightly, her brows furrowing weakly  her mind desperate to reject everything he was saying. 

"No, I don’t—"

The hospital room felt like a battlefield, drenched in sorrow, panic, and a grief too heavy to bear. 

Prisha struggled against Yuvaan's hold, thrashing, pushing, fighting, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her body **weak but unwilling to surrender. 

She didn’t feel the pain. 

Didn’t feel the shards of glass piercing through her skin, tearing into her feet, slicing through fragile flesh. 

Blood painted the cold floor, but she didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate, didn’t care. 

Because the pain inside her heart **was worse than anything her body could feel.

"Prishaaaa!" 

Abhinash’s voice cracked, his chest tightening painfully as he watched his daughter spiral further into madness. 

Her knees threatened to buckle, but she pushed forward anyway—her only goal to escape, to run, to leave this world behind. 

"Leave me! I said leave me!"

Her screams shattered the silence filled with raw desperation, filled with devastation no one knew how to fix. 

She thrust Yuvaan back, forcing him to stumble slightly, her breath short, shallow, uneven. 

She turned—ready to run. 

But the moment she did—she saw them.

Her family. 

Standing there. 

Watching her. 

Blocking her way. 

But she didn’t care. 

She took another step—her feet pressing deeper into the shards of glass, fresh blood pooling beneath her, staining the sterile floor.

"Let me go! Please!"

Her voice wasn’t just a plea anymore—it was a cry, a broken, desperate prayer to be free. 

She folded her hands together, begging, her tear-filled gaze searching their faces, searching for mercy. 

"Where will you go?" 

Shreyansh’s voice was soft trembling, filled with a quiet terror as he grabbed her arms gently but firmly. 

She didn’t hesitate. 

Didn’t blink. 

Didn’t even think.

"To my baby. To my husband."

The words left her lips with ease, as if they were the only truth she believed in. 

And then—she smiled. 

A small, haunting, empty smile. 

And that’s when Kunal froze completely. 

Her condition was worsening. 

Her body was failing, but her mind was the real battle now—the real fight, the real loss. 

Abhinash and Soumya felt their hearts shatter, their breaths coming in quick, painful gasps, as they watched their daughter fall deeper into her hallucination.

Because she wasn’t looking at them. 

She wasn’t seeing them anymore.

Her eyes—they had lost them.

Her gaze flickered toward the doorway. 

Toward something no one else could see. 

And then—her lips parted.

"Come here, Dewdrop. I am here."

The voice echoed in her ears, familiar, comforting—Rudhransh's voice.

She gasped, fresh tears pouring down her cheeks  and she smiled.

"Yaa, I am coming, Rudhransh... I am coming!"

Her steps wobbled unsteady, fragile, but determined—determined to reach him, to go to him, to leave them behind. 

Everyone froze. 

They turned. 

But there was no one there.

Nothing. 

Only the hospital walls. 

Only the emptiness that was swallowing her whole.

"Come, we are waiting for you."

She giggled a soft, innocent laugh—one that broke everyone’s souls completely. 

She tried to free herself from Shreyansh’s hold her hands twisting in his grip.

"Leave me! He is calling me! I have to go!" 

Her voice was filled with urgency, panic, a quiet madness that no one knew how to stop. 

"He will get angry!" 

And in that moment—everyone present felt their hearts collapse completely.

This wasn’t just grief anymore. 

This wasn’t just loss. 

This was madness. 

A darkness too deep to come back from. 

"Her mental condition is getting worse." 

Kunal’s voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, but those words left everyone stunned, frozen, hopeless. 

She wasn’t going to listen.

She wasn’t going to understand. 

She wasn’t going to stop.

She had already left this world—only her body remained. 

"Prisha, look at me. There is no one!"

Shreyansh’s voice was desperate, trying—pleading—urging her to listen. 

But she did. 

And when she did—her eyes flashed with fury. 

"Shut up!" 

Her voice was sharp, angry, filled with a kind of rage that only comes from heartbreak. 

"He is here! He is calling me! Leave me!" 

She tried to push past them again, tried to escape, tried to run toward the illusion she had created. 

And that’s when Kunal made his decision.

Slowly, carefully, his hands moved.

His fingers gripped the syringe, filling it with a strong sedative. 

He took a breath, steadying himself, forcing himself to accept that this was the only way.

Because she needed treatment.

She needed help. 

She needed to be saved—but she would never allow it as long as she was awake. 

And so—he had to make her unconscious. 

As Kunal moved forward, syringe in hand, his breath steady but heavy, his heart shattering with every step, he knew—this was the only way.

Prisha wasn’t listening. 

She wasn’t seeing them anymore. 

She was lost. 

Lost in grief, in hallucination, in a pain so unbearable she wanted to leave this world behind. 

Her lips curved into a soft smile, one that should have been beautiful—but instead, it was terrifying. 

"I am coming, Rudhransh… I am coming!" 

She was reaching out. 

Not for them. 

But for someone who wasn’t there.

Her arms stretched forward, her steps wobbly, bleeding, fragile, as she tried to walk toward the illusion, toward her husband, toward her baby. 

Her feet pressed further into the shattered glass, red stains following her every movement, but she didn’t feel it. 

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t care. 

And that’s when Kunal struck. 

Quick. Precise. 

His grip tightened on her arm steadying her, keeping her from stumbling further, as he pressed the syringe into her skin. 

The sedative entered her bloodstream. 

And within seconds—her body failed her completely. 

Her steps faltered. 

Her breath hitched. 

Her knees buckled under her weight.

And before she could collapse—Shreyansh, Yuvaan, and Kunal caught her. 

Her arms went limp, her head falling against Shreyansh’s shoulder  her eyes fluttering closed, her lips parting slightly as if she wanted to whisper something—but couldn’t.

The room fell silent.

No more screams. 

No more cries. 

Just the sound of Soumya’s sobs. 

She had watched everything unfold, her body rigid, her hands trembling, her lips parted as if she wanted to speak—but her voice refused to come.

And now—her daughter lay unconscious in her brother’s arms, her condition worse than ever, her mind broken beyond recognition. 

"Prisha…!" 

The name left her lips in a breathless whisper before her legs gave out beneath her completely.

She fell to her knees, her hands shaking as she reached out for her daughter, but she couldn’t touch her—not yet. 

Her heart was breaking. 

Her mind was collapsing. 

And all she could do—was cry. 

The room felt like it was collapsing, weighed down by grief so raw, so suffocating, that no one could breathe properly. 

Soumya’s sobs tore through the silence, her cries shaking through her chest, her fingers gripping onto Abhinash’s legs as if she needed something—anything—to hold onto. 

Her body shuddered, her lips quivering, her eyes red and swollen, drenched in endless tears. 

"What has become of her, Abhi?" 

Her voice was cracked, fragile, breaking apart as she looked at her husband, searching his face for answers that didn’t exist. 

Her breath hitched, her hands clenched into fists* the unbearable pain crushing her completely.

"I can’t see her like this." 

Her chest heaved, her sobs uncontrollable now, her fingers curling tighter around Abhinash’s legs, pulling him closer, desperate for comfort, desperate for escape from this nightmare.

And then—her voice broke completely. 

"Why so much pain for her? Why is God being cruel to her?" 

Her body shook, her nails digging into the fabric of his pants, her mind screaming for relief—for anything other than this unbearable sorrow.** 

"I will die, Abhi… I can’t see her like this!"

Her words were an admission of complete defeat, of the helplessness gripping her soul, of the unbearable truth she wasn’t ready to accept. 

Abhinash couldn’t take it anymore. 

His chest tightened, his throat burned, and without thinking, he bent down, wrapped his arms around his wife, holding her tightly as she sobbed into him. 

"Soumya…"

His voice was low, trembling, his own tears slipping silently down his face 

He couldn’t speak. 

Couldn’t promise anything. 

Couldn’t say it would be okay—because right now, nothing was okay. 

Kunal exhaled sharply, his jaw locking, his fingers clenching slightly, before he finally said—the only truth they had left to hold onto.

"We have to take Prisha to a good psychologist."

His voice was firm, but his heart was breaking just as much as theirs.

"Her mental condition is getting worse."

A heavy silence followed his words settling into the room, pressing down onto their chests. 

Shreyansh and Yuvaan didn’t respond.

Couldn’t respond. 

They were both too broken to say anything.

Shreyansh sat beside Prisha, his fingers gently running through her hair, his hands wiping away the tears that had dried against her pale cheeks. 

He stared at her lifeless face his own breath ragged, his own soul aching in ways he never imagined. 

She was here.

But she was gone. 

And then—Kunal moved carefully, his hands working silently as he cleaned her wounds, wiping away the blood, tending to the injuries she refused to acknowledge. 

No one spoke. 

No one could. 

Because there were no words left to say. 

Only the unbearable silence of a family watching their loved one slip further way.

________

The small, dimly lit room was filled with quiet sorrow, the soft hum of medical machines the only sound breaking the silence. 

A man lay on the hospital bed, still, unmoving, wires attached to his body, the rhythmic beep of the monitor signaling life—fragile, faint, but still present. 

It had been three months. 

Three months of uncertainty. 

Three months of waiting—for him to wake, for him to speak, for him to remember.

But he never did. 

Not yet. 

And as the days passed, as the seasons changed outside the window, a deep ache settled into the hearts of the elderly couple watching over him. 

The old man sighed, his rough hands clenching slightly as he looked at his wife  her gaze fixed on the unconscious man, soft, motherly, filled with quiet pain.

"When will he wake up?"

His voice was thick with worry the weight of unanswered questions pressing down on him.

"We don’t even know who he is… How can we find his family?" 

The old woman’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t respond right away. 

She couldn’t. 

Because deep down, she knew—no one was coming. 

Three months had passed. 

If someone were looking for him, they would have found him by now. 

Her hands trembled slightly, her heart aching with something she hadn’t admitted aloud yet. 

And then—she finally spoke. 

"Can’t we make him our son?" 

The words were quiet, filled with longing, filled with grief, filled with a kind of hope that should have terrified her—but didn’t.

Her husband turned to her, stunned, his brows furrowing slightly. 

But her eyes—her eyes carried pain. 

Deep. Unspoken. A pain that hadn’t left her heart in years. 

"It’s been three months,"she whispered, **her voice trembling, her fingers tightening against the blanket near the man’s bedside. 

"No one has come searching for him." 

She took a slow breath, her gazenever leaving the lifeless man she had come to care for.

"We have no one, ." 

Her voice was softer now, filled with sorrow. 

"We lost our son."

A beat. 

A silence too heavy, too thick, too suffocating. 

Her husband’s throat tightened painfully, his chest burning as the weight of her words settled deep within him. 

Because he knew. 

He knew his wife had already become attached to this man. 

She had already begun loving him, caring for him, protecting him—as if he were her own. 

And deep down—he understood.

Because he had seen it happen before his eyes.

The way she watched over him, the way she whispered prayers at his bedside, the way she spoke to him even when he couldn’t respond. 

Because somehow—this stranger reminded her of the son she lost. 

And she had already chosen to love him. 

She swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper now. 

"If he wakes up and wants to leave, he can." 

Her husband looked at her carefully, his fingers gently holding onto hers, grounding her, steadying her trembling hands. 

"But if not… can’t we keep him?"

The question hung in the air, fragile, breaking, aching. 

He watched as tears pooled in her eyes, as she tightened her grip on his hands as her breath shook beneath the weight of everything she felt.

And finally—he sighed. 

His voice was low, steady but filled with something deeper than just understanding. 

"If he wants to leave us, then?" 

The old woman took a shaky breath, her lips pressing together. 

Then—she finally answered. 

"We will not stop him." 

Her voice was firm. 

But her heart—her heart ached at the thought. 

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the quiet room. The rhythmic beep of the monitors hummed in the background, filling the air with a sense of fragile hope, a promise of life that had remained unchanged for months. 

The old man sighed, adjusting his coat as he prepared to leave. His gaze lingered on the unmoving figure lying on the bed—silent, still, wires connected to his weak body, but alive. 

"I’m leaving for work," he said, his voice steady but filled with quiet concern. 

He turned to his wife, who was already watching the young man with the kind of care only a mother could give. 

"Stay here. If you see any movement, call Mr. Mittal immediately." 

His wife nodded wordlessly, her fingers tightening around the edge of the blanket resting over the man’s fragile form. 

As the old man stepped out of the room, leaving for work, she stayed behind, her heart too attached to him now to just walk away immediately. 

She moved closer, her gaze softening, filled with love that had slowly grown over time. 

She gently brushed the hair away from his forehead, her fingers warm against his cold skin.

And then—she placed a soft kiss on his forehead. 

A mother's touch. 

A silent prayer. 

A promise that, even though he wasn’t her real son, her heart had already chosen to love him like one. 

"Get well, my son," she whispered, the words fragile, filled with unspoken longing.

Then—she slowly stood up, sighing deeply, pulling herself away from the bedside. 

She didn’t want to leave. 

Didn’t want to step away from him. 

But she had to—just for a little while. 

She walked toward the door, exiting the room to finish her kitchen work, her presence leaving behind a quiet warmth that lingered in the air.

The door clicked shut behind her. 

And then—the moment she left, something changed. 

The young man's fingers twitched ever so slightly. 

His breath hitched—shaky, uneven, uncertain.

And then—his eyes slowly opened. 

____________

Another month had passed, and Prisha remained in the same place—sitting by the window, staring blankly outside, her gaze empty, lost in thoughts that had no destination. 

Her fingers clutched tightly around a worn-out photograph—Rudhransh's picture, pressed against her chest, as if keeping it close could somehow bring him back. 

She had stopped crying long ago. 

There were no more tears left to shed, no more sobs, no more screams. 

Only silence. 

Only the same whispered words—haunting, repeating, never-ending.

"I killed my little angel before she could come to me…"

It had become her reality. 

The only truth she believed in. 

The only thing she could hold onto in the abyss of emptiness surrounding her. 

Her body had grown weaker frail beyond recognition. 

She had stopped eating, stopped drinking  ignored the worried voices around her, ignored the desperate pleas of her family. 

Her once-glowing skin had turned pale, lifeless. 

Her hair, once thick and beautiful, had lost its shine, hanging untamed, untouched. 

She had become a soul without a purpose a ghost trapped in a breathing body—alive but no longer living. 

And then—the door creaked open. 

She didn’t turn. 

Didn’t react. 

Didn’t even blink—until a voice reached her ears, soft, gentle, hesitant. 

"Prishaa…" 

Shreyansh. 

She slowly lifted her gaze, her hollow eyes meeting her brother’s. 

But she said nothing.

Didn’t acknowledge him. 

Didn’t respond. 

She barely even looked at him.

And then—her eyes flickered to what he was holding. 

Arya stood beside him, her arms wrapped protectively around her babies—Reyansh and Arayansh, bundled in soft blankets, their tiny forms innocent, untouched by the grief that had consumed this home.

Prisha tensed instantly, her fingers tightening around Rudhransh’s photo, her body stiffening as fear crashed over her like a tidal wave. 

She shifted slightly away her breath turning shallow, uneven, uncertain.

Because suddenly—it was back.

The crushing guilt. 

The unbearable pain. 

The belief that had haunted her for months. 

She was a curse.

A disaster. 

She had taken lives—her husband, her baby.

And now—what if she took theirs, too?

No.

She couldn’t. 

She wouldn’t. 

She had never held them again—not since the last time, not since she had held them with Rudhransh. 

And she wouldn’t start now. 

She wouldn’t let her shadow touch them. 

Because her hands—were stained with loss, with destruction, with the weight of everything she had ruined.

Prisha's breath hitched, her fingers clenching tightly around Rudhransh’s photograph, her body trembling violently as she kept her gaze fixed on the babies.

Her chest tightened , suffocating beneath the weight of emotions too heavy, too unbearable, too unrelenting 

She hadn’t spoken. 

Hadn’t eaten. 

Hadn’t truly lived. 

And yet—her heart still ached every second of every day. 

She heard the door open—but didn’t turn. 

Didn’t react. 

Until—Shreyansh’s voice reached her

"Why haven’t you eaten, Prisha?"

She said nothing. 

Didn’t blink. 

Didn’t move. 

Because eating, breathing, surviving—it all felt useless. 

Then—a servant stepped in, placing the plate of food on the table before silently leaving.

Shreyansh glanced at it, then at Prisha, his heart squeezing painfully as he took a step closer, his wife beside him, holding their babies carefully in her arms.

And the moment Prisha saw them—she trembled.

Visibly. 

Her body shuddered, her breath quivered, her fingers tightened around the photograph as if holding onto it would save her from this moment.

She shook her head violently, backing away slightly, her lips parted in panic. 

"D-don’t come close to me, please!"

Her voice was desperate, shaking, filled with the unbearable fear of hurting them. 

She covered her face, as if shielding herself from the sight of them, as if protecting them from her own presence. 

"Take them away… take the babies away from me!" 

Her voice cracked filled with agony, her heart clawing at her chest, begging her to breathe, to stop, to hold on. 

But she couldn’t. 

She was bad. 

She was a curse. 

She would end up hurting them—just like she had hurt her own child. 

Araya’s eyes glistened with tears, her arms tightening around her babies, her voice soft but pleading as she spoke. 

"Hold them, Prisha. Please." 

Her voice was filled with longing, with love, with a desperate need to bring Prisha back from this abyss.

"They want to be in your arms. They want to be held by their Bua." 

She stepped forward, slowly, gently, as if approaching a wounded animal afraid of touch. 

And the moment she moved closer—Prisha trembled harder.

Her breath was ragged, her body weak, shaking, breaking. 

Araya sat beside her, her own heart pounding painfully, as she reached out—cupping Prisha’s face tenderly in her palm.

"Bhabhi, please… take them."

Prisha’s lips quivered, her eyes filled with tears she hadn’t shed in days, weeks—months. 

Her gaze flickered to the babies, innocent, pure, untouched by the pain she carried. 

And she begged.

"Take them away!"

Her voice was fragile, broken, a quiet plea drenched in guilt and fear. 

She gasped, her breath shaking violently her mind filling with memories—memories of the child she had lost. 

"I will hurt them!" 

She cried, her voice cracking, her fingers clenching into fists, nails digging into her skin as she tried toconvince them, convince herself, convince the world that she was nothing but destruction. 

Araya’s grip tightened her own breath **trembling as she wiped away the silent tears rolling down Prisha’s cheeks. 

And then—she whispered. 

"You won’t, Prisha." 

She leaned forward, her voice so soft, so gentle, so unrelenting. 

"Just hold them." 

But Prisha shook her head violently, her voice barely escaping her lips anymore. 

"No… I… I have ruined my happiness… I killed my baby…" 

She choked on the words, her body curling inward, her pain suffocating her completely. 

_____

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