Echoes of the Past

The soft hum of rain filled the silence that had wrapped itself around Aariv’s small hill cabin. For the first time in years, Aanya felt safe — not entirely free, but sheltered. Each morning brought the quiet rhythm of normalcy she’d forgotten ever existed.

She’d wake to the scent of coffee — strong, dark, precise, just like Aariv himself. He never said much, but his silence carried warmth. Sometimes, when he caught her stealing glances at him, his lips would twitch in a rare half-smile.

“Tumhe coffee pasand nahi aayi?” he asked one morning, eyes on her untouched mug.

(“You didn’t like the coffee?”)

She shook her head, smiling faintly. “Nahi… bas yaadon ka taste alag hota hai.”

(“No… it’s just that memories have a different taste.”)

He didn’t press further. Aariv never did. That was what made her feel safe — he asked nothing, demanded nothing. After the suffocating possessiveness of Rivan, this quietness felt like sunlight after years underground.

But the peace was fragile.

Because the nightmares had returned.

Every night, flashes of fire — a woman screaming, a man shouting her name, and the burning edge of a photo frame melting into darkness. Aanya would wake up breathless, sweat clinging to her neck.

One night, when her trembling grew too strong to hide, Aariv entered her room without knocking. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He simply sat beside her, his presence steady, grounding.

“Tum akeli nahi ho, Aanya,” he said softly. “Main hoon yahan.”

(“You’re not alone, Aanya. I’m here.”)

Something broke in her then — not in pain, but in release. She leaned into him, her forehead against his shoulder. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full — of everything they didn’t say.

Outside, the rain poured harder. Inside, Aanya realized she’d begun to feel something dangerous — trust.

The next day, Aariv went into the nearby town to gather supplies. Aanya stayed behind, wandering through the cabin. She found an old piano in the corner, covered in dust. She pressed a key — the note trembled, fragile and sweet.

For a fleeting moment, she could almost remember a melody. Her mother’s lullaby. The one that always ended with:

“Tu meri roshni hai, Aanya…”

(“You are my light, Aanya…”)

The memory struck her like a wave — and with it came a faint image: a tall man with kind eyes, calling her name through smoke. “Aanya, run!”

Her heart raced. The memory felt real, too real.

Meanwhile, somewhere far from the quiet hills, Rivan Singh stood in his dark study, a glass of whiskey in his hand. The screen before him glowed with an old photograph — a little girl with soft curls and a bright smile, standing beside a man in a crisp suit.

The headline read:

“Mehra Heiress Missing After Fire – Aryan Mehra’s Daughter Presumed Dead.”

Rivan’s jaw clenched. He whispered to himself, voice dripping with a twisted calm,

“So this is who you are, my beautiful revenge…”

His phone buzzed. It was an unknown number. He didn’t need to look — he already knew who it was.

“She’s alive,” came a raspy voice on the line. “And she’s not alone.”

Rivan smiled.

“Neither am I.”

That night, as the hills slept under a storm, Aariv received a message from an unknown number.

“You’re protecting the wrong girl.”

He froze. The words on the screen pulsed like poison. For the first time, doubt crawled into his chest.

He looked at Aanya, sitting by the fire, her eyes glowing in the dim light — fragile, warm, unaware.