*Chapter Four: *Born from Grief*

The months went by.

Ashima developed, both physically and in bravery. She encountered whispers, judgment, and looks of pity. Yet she faced it all with her head held high. She devoured baby books late into the night, spoke to Karan’s photograph when nobody was around, and knitted tiny socks as the monsoon rained down.

At times, she would sit on the balcony — Karan’s favorite place — and share stories with the baby.

“Your papa adored chai far too much,” she’d whisper. “And he always burned his tongue. He claimed I made the worst tea, yet he would still drink two cups.”

And the baby would kick. As if he were listening. As if he were laughing.

One crisp November morning, the baby made his entrance.

A boy.

In a room filled with white walls and the scent of antiseptic, the very same place where she had lost Karan, she held him for the first time. But this time, something new was born.

Hope.

Tiny. Wrinkled. Flushed-red.

She named him *Aarav*\, which means peaceful.

And as he wrapped his minuscule hand around her finger, Ashima recognized something sacred:

Her life hadn’t ended with Karan’s death.

It had merely begun anew.

The first night at home with Aarav was chaos.

He cried every hour, his tiny lungs stronger than anyone expected. Ashima, exhausted from the delivery, tried to nurse him with shaking hands and tear-brimmed eyes. Her mother stayed awake beside her, gently rocking him when Ashima’s body finally gave in to sleep.

Ronit tiptoed the room the next morning, peeking into the crib with wide eyes. “He looks like an alien,” he said with fascination.

Ashima smiled drowsily. “An adorable little alien.”

Aarav was fragile, his form still a bit too light, his skin a reddish hue and soft like damp clay. Yet his eyes—dark, profound, and perceptive—seemed to scrutinize the world with quiet wonder.

Karan’s eyes.

Ashima saw them and cried.

The initial weeks passed in a haze of lullabies, bottles, burp cloths, and half-finished meals. There were times she barely got dressed. Nights, she strolled the hallway for hours, softly singing to a baby who wouldn’t sleep unless he could hear her heartbeat.

Her existence narrowed to three beings: her child, mother, and Ronit. Outside, life moved on — neighbors chattered, relatives provided unsolicited advice, society judged from behind closed doors — but inside that small apartment, Ashima was creating something sacred.

A connection. A routine. A reason to rise each morning.

One evening, Ashima discovered an old letter Karan had penned to her during their honeymoon.

"If anything should happen to me, promise me you’ll continue to live. Raise our kids as though the world is theirs. And please… never forget how strong you are, even when you don’t feel it."

She pressed the letter to her chest and glanced at Aarav, who was peacefully sleeping in his crib, his tiny fists clenching and unclenching.

“I’m trying, Karan,” she murmured. “I am.”

As Aarav matured, so did Ashima.

She began writing again — short stories, little poems for children, lullabies that visited her in the early hours of the morning. Her notebooks were chaotic, stained with baby drool and formula, but they were brimming with life.

She found solace in the mundane: folding baby clothes, warming bottles, watching Ronit and Aarav doze off together on the couch. Gradually, the sting of loss didn’t disappear—but it lessened, like a scar that ceased to throb when touched.

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