The Sound of Unbreaking Act III – Threads in the Wind

The room felt emptier after he left.

Aanya stood by the window, arms folded tightly across her chest, staring at the space he’d stood in just minutes ago. He hadn’t said a word before leaving. No apology. No promise. Just a look—so long and searching, it almost ached.

But sometimes, silence could be louder than anything else.

Mahi—Mitali Rajkonwar was talking to Mrs. Mrinalini Borphukon in soft tones near the doorway. Nisha hovered close, unsure if she should stay or slip away.

“I don’t know what he’s thinking,” Aanya said finally, voice hoarse. “He didn’t even say if he’d listened to the recording.”

Mitali came up beside her, placing a gentle hand on her back.

“He’s got years of guilt to wade through,” she said. “But I saw his face. He felt it, Aanya. The art. The truth. Your mother.”

Aanya didn’t answer.

“Give him time,” Mitali continued. “And give yourself space, too. You’ve carried too much alone.”

Mrs. Borphukon stepped forward, her voice warm. “You did something most adults are too afraid to do. You turned pain into clarity. That’s not small.”

Aanya met her teacher’s eyes.

“I just want it to stop hurting.”

Mrs. Borphukon nodded and whispered, “That’s how healing begins.”

Ashes and Embers

That night, Rajeev sat alone in his study.

The envelope was still where Mitali had told him it would be—bottom drawer, tucked beneath a stack of utility bills and unopened greeting cards.

His hands trembled slightly as he opened the letter. The handwriting was uneven. Hesitant. Raw.

Then he played the audio file from Aanya’s old phone, the one she’d clutched like a lifeline for weeks.

Her voice was shaky, young, and yet heartbreakingly steady.

“I still love you. But I don’t know how to make you see me.”

He didn’t realized he was crying until the recording ended and the room fell into a kind of hush that felt like mourning.

When he confronted Rhea later that night, she didn’t resist. She didn’t deny it.

She simply sat on the edge of the bed, eyes blank, and said:

“My mother hated yours. Neela hated Kamini. For everything—being admired, being chosen, being remembered. She told me to take what was owed. You were part of the plan.”

“And Aanya?” he asked, voice rough.

Rhea didn’t answer.

But the answer was everywhere—etched in every whisper she’d fed him, every seed of doubt she’d planted. Every truth he’d refused to see.

He asked her to leave.

Not in rage.

Not in spectacles.

Just tiredness. And the deep, cold ache of regret.

The Porch Light

Aanya returned home the next evening.

The house was quiet. Hollow. Like a stage waiting for the next scene.

No Rhea. No slamming doors. No lies echoing down the hallway.

Just silence—and the hum of something slowly, cautiously beginning again.

Rajeev tried to make tea.

It was too strong, nearly bitter.

Aanya sipped it anyway.

They didn’t say much.

Words would come later—if they came at all.

The next morning, she found a chocolate on her desk. Unwrapped. Almond-filled. Her favourite.

It didn’t fix anything.

But it didn’t need to.

It was just a light left on.

And for now, that was enough.

Relearning Light

They started talking. Slowly.

About her mother. About the school.

About the quiet things in between that had gone too long unsaid.

He showed her photos he had kept locked away—Aparna and Rajeev on their wedding day, on holidays at Palm Beach, in the hospital with newborn Aanya surrounded by family, Aparna laughing under the winter sun with her arms wrapped around a younger Aanya, the wind tossing her hair.

And then, the harder ones—Aparna in her hospital bed during her final days, pale but still smiling. The quiet, grief-stilled images from her funeral.

Aanya cried into his shoulder, and this time, he didn’t pull away.

Forgiveness didn’t come fast.

But it came.

Like sunlight through gauze—soft, slow, and sure.