Chapter 1: The Sound of Silence

The world was quiet when Aarya Khan was born—too quiet. No lullaby welcomed her, no proud whispers danced in the air. Only her mother’s labored breaths filled the dimly lit room, and a midwife who frowned at the frail, pale child in her arms.

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“She won’t survive,” the woman had muttered.

But Aarya did.

She lived....

And that was the beginning of her punishment....

The house she was born into was not a home. It was four walls that groaned under the weight of secrets, where the air smelled of damp wood and unspoken grief. The cracked plaster of the ceilings peeled away like the skin of old wounds, and silence crawled through the corridors like an uninvited guest.

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Her mother had been a gentle woman, soft-spoken and delicate, like a candle burning in a storm. She had carried Aarya with trembling hands and sleepless nights, often praying for her daughter’s safety in whispers too fragile to reach the heavens. But Aarya’s birth took more than her strength—it took her life.

Her father, once a man of poetry, lost himself that night. Where verses once filled his notebooks, liquor now filled his veins. He never blamed Aarya aloud for her mother’s death, but his eyes—bloodshot and bitter—spoke all the words he never said. To him, she was the child who had stolen his beloved away.

Aarya grew up beneath that gaze, her earliest memory not of warmth but of absence. No hand ever stroked her hair when she cried, no kiss brushed her forehead when fever burned her small body. The cradle where she slept was not rocked with love but with indifference.

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The neighbors would sometimes hear her tiny wails in the night, piercing through the thin walls. They’d shake their heads, mutter that she was a weak child, cursed perhaps. No one offered comfort. No one came knocking.

Her stepmother entered her life when Aarya was only three—a woman draped in silk and bitterness, whose smile was as sharp as broken glass. She looked at Aarya not as a daughter but as a burden, a reminder of the woman she could never replace.

The stepmother’s hands were always busy—adorning herself with gold, preparing lavish meals for her own relatives—but never once busy with Aarya. When she did use them, it was often to push Aarya aside or strike her for being “too slow, too clumsy, too much.”

The child learned early that silence was safer than sound. That asking for food meant a slap, that crying meant a harsher punishment. She became a shadow in her own house, drifting through rooms unnoticed, holding her breath when footsteps came too close.

The world outside did not offer rescue. The street she lived on was filled with noise—vendors shouting, children running, women gossiping—but none of it belonged to her. Aarya was like glass behind a wall; she could see life unfolding, but never touch it.

Yet, even in those early years, she clung to survival. When her stepmother tossed her scraps, she ate quietly, never wasting a grain of rice. When her father slammed doors and shouted, she pressed her small palms over her ears and imagined faraway lands where people smiled. At night, when the shadows frightened her, she whispered to herself that she would live—because living was the only thing she knew how to do.

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The midwife’s words followed her like a curse, echoing in her mind even though she was too young to understand their weight: She won’t survive.

But Aarya did.

She lived.

And as she grew, she would come to realize that surviving and living were not the same thing. For now, though, the world had already decided what she was—fragile, unwanted, and silent.

Her life had begun not with joy, but with the sound of silence

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Chapter 2: Cracks in the Ceiling

At five years old, Aarya Khan already knew that silence was safer than words.

The walls of her house creaked like they were tired of holding in screams, and the ceiling above her bed had a long, jagged crack that split like a lightning scar across the plaster. Every night, she’d lie beneath it and imagine it widening, swallowing her whole, freeing her from the voices below.

Her stepmother’s voice was sharp tonight.

“You useless little brat!”

Aarya flinched at the sound of glass breaking in the kitchen. Her small hands trembled around the doll she’d sewn from old cloth—its button eye missing, its hair made of tangled black thread. She whispered to it softly, like a secret.

“Don’t cry. She’ll hear you.”

The doll never cried

But Aarya wanted to.

Her father’s footsteps came next—heavy, dragging, uneven. The smell of alcohol filled the narrow hallway before he did. Once upon a time, he’d been a man who hummed poetry while shaving, who’d kept notebooks filled with verses for his late wife. Now, his voice was nothing but a growl soaked in whiskey.

“Where’s my belt?” he barked.

Aarya’s stepmother appeared at the doorway, her bangles clinking like warning bells. “Your daughter broke the plate again. I told her not to touch the dishes, but she’s too stubborn to listen!”

Aarya pressed herself into the corner of the wall, her bare feet cold against the floor.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Shut up!” her stepmother hissed, grabbing her by the arm. “Always with your excuses! Do you think food grows on trees?”

“I—I’ll clean it. Please, Amma, don’t tell—”

Aarya didn’t finish. Her father’s shadow fell over her like a storm cloud. He raised his belt slowly, like a man preparing to silence a ghost.

“I work all day,” he said, voice thick and trembling, “and come home to this? A crying child and a broken plate?”

Aarya’s small fingers trembled. “I’m sorry, Baba. I’ll never do it again.”

The belt came down anyway.

The sound cracked through the air, sharp and final.

Once. Twice.

Until the doll slipped from her hand and hit the floor with a dull thud.

Her stepmother stood by, arms folded, lips curling with satisfaction. “She needs to learn,” she said simply.

When they were done, Aarya crawled back to her room, her breath shaking, her eyes stinging. She pressed the torn hem of her sleeve to her bleeding lip and stared at the ceiling crack again. It had grown a little wider.

“Maybe,” she whispered to the doll, “if it falls, it’ll take me with it.”

The next morning, she went to school with a long sleeve pulled down over her wrist and her hair hiding half her face. The teacher barely looked up as she entered. “Late again, Aarya?”

She nodded silently and took her seat at the back.

During lunch, two girls snickered at her cracked lunchbox and the cold rice inside.

“She probably eats garbage at home,” one said.

Aarya didn’t respond. She stared at her rice and counted her breaths—one, two, three—until the surrounding noise turned into static.

That evening, she returned home to find her father passed out on the couch, an empty bottle beside him. The radio played an old love song in the background, something her mother once liked.

Aarya paused, staring at his sleeping form. The light from the window fell across his face, and for a second—just a second—he looked like the man from her baby pictures. She tiptoed closer and placed the blanket over him.

“Good night, Baba,” she whispered.

He stirred but didn’t wake.

Upstairs, her stepmother’s voice echoed from the bathroom, gossiping loudly on the phone. Aarya slipped into her room, shut the door, and sat cross-legged on the bed. She picked up her doll again and brushed its tangled threads with her fingers.

“You’re lucky,” she murmured to it. “No one hits you when you drop something.”

Outside, thunder rumbled faintly. Raindrops began to fall, tapping against the windowpane like a thousand tiny footsteps. Aarya hugged the doll tightly and closed her eyes, listening to the storm.

For the first time that day, the house was quiet. Not peaceful—but quiet.

And beneath the cracked ceiling, Aarya whispered to herself again:

“I’ll be good tomorrow. I promise.”

Because in her small world, goodness was not about kindness or love.

It was about survival.

Chapter 3: The Girl Who Didn’t Speak

By the time Aarya turned thirteen, silence had become her native language.

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She didn’t speak much at school anymore. There was no point. When she did, her voice came out small—barely a whisper. Teachers barely noticed her unless she forgot her homework or tripped in the hallway. Her classmates called her "ghost girl". The name stuck.

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Her uniform was always too big for her, the fabric hanging loosely off her thin frame. Her shoes were scuffed, her bag faded and patched. Each morning she walked to school alone, clutching her lunchbox like a secret.

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And then, one morning in early spring, the new girl arrived.

Ziyana.

She walked into the classroom like a spark in a room full of ashes—hair tied in a messy ponytail, blazer unbuttoned, an untamed grin on her face. She didn’t wait for permission to sit; she just dropped into the empty seat beside Aarya.

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“Hey,” Ziyana said, pulling out a notebook covered in doodles. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Aarya blinked, unsure how to respond. Nobody ever talked to her like that.

“I... haven’t,” she murmured

.

“Good,” Ziyana grinned. “Because I hate ghosts.”

The class tittered, but Ziyana didn’t care. She tapped her pencil against the desk, humming softly. Aarya kept glancing at her, trying not to stare. There was something magnetic about her confidence—like she carried sunlight in her pocket.

During lunch, Ziyana plopped down beside Aarya again. “So, ghost girl, what’s your name?”

Aarya hesitated. “Aarya.”

“Aarya,” Ziyana repeated, as if tasting it. “Pretty. I like it. You’re quiet though. Are you shy or just mysterious?”

Aarya shrugged, chewing her rice silently.

Ziyana leaned closer. “You don’t talk much, huh?”

“No one listens,” Aarya said softly, surprising herself.

Ziyana tilted her head. “Then I’ll listen.”

Aarya looked up. No one had ever said that to her before. Not her teachers. Not her family. Not anyone.

That afternoon, Ziyana got scolded for passing Aarya a note in class. When the teacher confiscated it, she read it aloud:

“Smile once. I want to see if the sun still works.”

The class laughed. Aarya turned red with embarrassment, hiding her face behind her book. But Ziyana just smirked and said, “What? It’s true. She’s been frowning since I met her.”

When the bell rang, Aarya waited until the classroom emptied before picking up her things. Ziyana was waiting for her at the gate.

“Walk home with me,” she said.

“I live far,” Aarya replied.

“Then I’ll walk far too.”

Aarya didn’t know why, but she agreed. They walked together through the dusty lanes, their shadows stretching side by side on the cracked pavement.

Ziyana talked the whole way—about how her family had moved from Karachi, how she hated maths, how she once climbed a tree to steal mangoes and fell into a drain. Aarya didn’t say much, but she listened. And for once, listening didn’t feel like punishment.

When they reached Aarya’s street, Ziyana stopped. The house looked smaller than usual, darker, as if it were watching them.

“Is this your place?”

Aarya nodded. “Don’t come here. My stepmother doesn’t like guests.”

Ziyana frowned. “She sounds like a joy.”

“She’s not,” Aarya whispered.

Ziyana stared at her for a moment, then gently reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from Aarya’s cheek. Beneath it was a fading bruise. “Who did that?”

Aarya stepped back. “No one.”

Ziyana’s eyes hardened. “Don’t lie.”

Aarya shook her head. “Please. Don’t ask.”

For a moment, they stood in silence. The wind carried the faint scent of burning wood and dust. Then Ziyana sighed, forcing a smile. “Fine. I won’t ask. But if anyone touches you again, I’ll break their nose.”

Aarya’s eyes widened. “You’ll get in trouble.”

“Worth it,” Ziyana said, grinning. “Besides, I’ve got good aim.”

It was ridiculous—and yet, for the first time in years, Aarya laughed. It was soft and uncertain, but it was real

Ziyana’s eyes lit up. “There it is! The sun still works.”

That night, Aarya couldn’t sleep. She lay awake under her cracked ceiling, her fingers tracing invisible shapes on the blanket.

A friend.

The word felt strange in her mouth. Heavy, almost dangerous.

From downstairs, she heard her stepmother’s voice—angry, sharp, accusing her father of wasting money again. Then came the sound of a slap, a crash, and her father’s muffled shouting.

Aarya buried her face in her pillow. Her chest hurt in a way she couldn’t name.

She wanted to run—to somewhere quiet, somewhere safe. But she couldn’t. Faris was asleep in the next room, small and sickly. She couldn’t leave him behind.

Still, she whispered into the darkness, “Thank you, Ziyana.”

The next morning, Ziyana was waiting for her outside school again, holding two cups of chai from the canteen.

“Here. One’s yours.”

Aarya hesitated. “I don’t have money—”

“Did I ask?” Ziyana smirked. “Drink before it gets cold.”

They sat on the bench together, steam curling between them. For a while, they didn’t talk. And then, quietly, Aarya asked, “Why are you nice to me?”

Ziyana looked at her. “Because you remind me of me.”

Aarya frowned. “You’re not like me.”

Ziyana laughed softly. “You think so? My dad’s gone. My mom works double shifts. I take care of my little brother alone. So yeah, maybe I smile too much, but it’s just so people don’t see the cracks.”

Aarya blinked. “The cracks?”

Ziyana nodded. “Yeah. The ones life leaves when it hits too hard.”

For the first time, Aarya looked at her not as someone loud or fearless—but as someone hiding her own bruises, just better at smiling through them.

When the bell rang, they stood up together. Ziyana nudged her playfully. “You’re stuck with me now, Aarya Khan.”

Aarya tilted her head. “Stuck?”

“Yep. Friends don’t run away.”

That afternoon, when Aarya returned home, she found her stepmother yelling again. But this time, Aarya didn’t cry. She walked past quietly, holding the memory of Ziyana’s laughter close like a shield.

And that night, under the same cracked ceiling, Aarya whispered a promise to herself:

“I’ll survive… maybe even smile again.”

For the first time in her life, silence didn’t hurt.

It simply waited—because someone, cared for her.

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