"The weight of Memory "

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: Siya's pov :

The golden morning light spilled through the curtains, pricking at my eyelids until they finally fluttered open.

Even then, the leaden weight of melancholy pinned me to the mattress. I wasn’t exactly the "life of the party" type; I’d spent my life playing the part of the dutiful shadow, jumping through every hoop my father, aunt, and uncle held out without a peep of protest.

My hand brushed the pillow—still damp and cold from my  breakdown. I did not realise when I buzzed in sleep after crying session

Suddenly, the sharp ding-dong of the doorbell sliced through the silence. I scrambled for my phone: 8:00 AM.

My heart did a somersault. Usually, by this time, my aunt’s voice would be dripping with its daily dose of acid: "Oh, look who’s finally graced us with her presence. Is Mahrani going to feed us today, or are we fasting?"

But today was something different it feels so cold & silence in the house not any noise, not any taunt, not any loud voices

I rushed to the balcony, calling out for aunty, uncle 2-3 times  but my voice only echoed off the empty walls. Then it clicked—they’d mentioned a crack-of-dawn departure last night. But atlest they can tell me where are they going or they can wake me off

But before I could dwell on being ditched, I saw the date.

BaBa. He was coming from the village today. That realization hit me like a shot of pure adrenaline, washing away the gloom. I didn't even pause to look in a mirror—hair like a bird's nest, a faded, oversized tee, and eyes puffed up like marshmallows—I just bolted downstairs.

"Sorry, Baba ! You have to wait on the gate because of me. " I rambled, throwing the gate open and turning my back to stretch. "If I’d known you were this early, I would’ve been at the station. Are you okay? Tired? Hungry? I know I’m talking your ear off, but you’re here after a long time

My world was small—shrunk down to the only two people who actually heard me when I spoke. There was my baba, the anchor of my soul, and then there was Aarya. She was my best friend, the sister my heart chose, but in my chachi's eyes, she was "poison." To my chachi, a girl who calls out injustice, who stands her ground, and who dares to follow her own compass is simply "spoiled."

I wondered, with a hollow ache in my chest: Is bravery really a sin? Is wanting to be heard the same as being "ruined"? I wouldn’t know. I’d never possessed the spine to try it.

Then there was the second layer of my grief: Baba lived miles away in the village far away from me a place where my childhood memories still breathed and where the ghost of my mother lingered in every corner.

After she passed, those memories were all I had left. My chachi and chachu had reached out their hands to us when the rest of the world turned its back, bringing me to the city for my studies. They were my "saviors," yet here I was a bird in a gilded cage.

I was forbidden from going back to the village. My chachi claimed she couldn't manage the household chores without my hands to help, but I knew the truth.

One day, though, I’d go back. I’d live my childhood again, talking until the stars came out with baba , feeling my mother’s presence in the wind.

I was drowning so deep in these thoughts that I didn't notice the world around me... until a sharp, rhythmic "Ahem!" sliced through the air.

Someone cleared their throat behind me a dry, impatient sound that snapped the thread of my daydream instantly.

I froze. My mouth went bone-dry, and every nerve in my body stood at attention. Slowly painfully slowly I turned around.

It wasn't Baba

Standing there was a man who looked like he’d stepped straight off a high-fashion runway and into my messy reality.

He was a tower of a man easily six-foot-plus swathed in a charcoal gray tailored suit that screamed old money. His eyes were dark, magnetic deep, and currently boring holes into mine. Perfect abs and body he is still in his 20's

I had to crane my neck just to maintain eye contact, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

I fumbled with my hair, trying to tuck the chaos behind my ears, my voice coming out in a pathetic, trembling squeak. "Who... who are you?" Wh..om.. do..yo..u wa..nt t..o m..e..e..t ?

I stood there, frozen, feeling the heat creep up my neck until my cheeks burned a frantic crimson. It was bad enough that I looked like a literal disaster zone hair a tangled mess, eyes red-rimmed and puffy, and wearing a T-shirt that had definitely seen better decades but did my tongue have to betray me, too?

​Every word I tried to form felt like it was tripping over itself. My thoughts were a chaotic blur, and my voice... oh, my voice. It didn't just shake; it practically shattered. I was fumbling through the simplest sentence like I’d forgotten how to speak. I can't tell how much embarrassment i am feeling right now.

He didn't answer immediately. He just stood there, his presence heavy and dominating, watching me with an unreadable expression. The silence was deafening. Then, he slowly raised his hands, palms pressed together in a perfect Namaste.

"Namaste," he said. His voice was like silk over gravel calm, steady, and terrifyingly polite.

I was paralyzed. I couldn't even find the breath to return the greeting. Before I could wrap my head around it, he simply turned and walked toward a massive black defender idling at the curb.

He paused at the door, casting one last, faint smile over his shoulder a look that felt like a question I didn't know the answer to and then he was gone.

I slammed the gate, my mind racing. Who was that? I definitely wasn't telling my chachi she’d skin me alive for opening the door to a stranger in a nightshirt.

I had never not once in my life encountered a man with such a commanding presence.

His face held a quiet, dominating power, yet his voice was as smooth and calm as a still lake. He looked like he was dripping in wealth: the precision-cut suit, the towering black defender that looked like it cost more than our entire street.

I’ve always had a soft spot for cars a secret obsession I never got to indulge but I'd never even sat in a beast like that.

But then, reality checked in. Who was I kidding? What did his bank account matter to me? For all I think, the suit was rented and the car belonged to his boss. Maybe he was just some neighborhood guy playing pretend, taking his employer’s luxury ride for a spin just to show off to unsuspecting girls at 8:00 AM.

With a face like that, he certainly looked the part of a "Master," but let’s be real people these days will do anything for a bit of clout. He was probably just doing a victory lap around the block to inflate his own ego. After all, why else would a complete stranger show up at my gate, and leave without saying anything it's so strange thing .

And The doorbell chimed again. My breath hitched. Was he back?

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