The Unopened Truth Act II – Cracks in the Mirror

Aanya’s eyes flicked to the hallway clock.

7:40 p.m. Her father should’ve been home twenty minutes ago.

The envelope she had slipped into his briefcase that morning—the one marked “Read Me Alone”—had not come up. Not in his tone, not in his eyes.

No hint of recognition.

He had returned home the same way he always did—shoes off at the door, laptop bag on the chair, loosening his tie as Rhea glided toward him like she was the one holding this family together.

She offered him tea before Aanya could even say hello.

Aanya’s heart sank.

Either he hadn’t seen it, or he had, and still chose silence.

Later that night, she crept into the study.

The briefcase was still there, propped beside the desk.

Her fingers trembled as she unlatched it, her breath shallow.

The envelope was inside. Unopened.

Still sealed. Still ignored.

She blinked away tears as disappointment curled like smoke in her chest. She had whispered the truth into his life, and he’d walked right past it.

The next morning, Rhea was humming.

Draped in a pale peach saree, flawless as ever. She handed Aanya a slice of toast with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“I thought I’d be kind today,” she said sweetly. “You look tired, darling. Restless nights?”

Aanya met her gaze, tight-lipped.

Rhea leaned closer, dropping her voice.

“You know,” she murmured, “you’re quite brave. Trying to outplay me. But you still don’t know the rules of the game.”

Then louder: “Have a lovely day at school, sweetheart!”

In the art room, Aanya slammed her brush down hard enough to crack the tip.

Ms. Kaur looked up from her desk.

“Aanya?” she said gently. “Come sit.”

Aanya sat across from her, too exhausted to pretend.

“Have you ever told the truth?” she asked quietly, “and no one listened?”

Ms. Kaur didn’t answer right away. Instead, she pulled open a drawer and took out a thin file, old, weathered.

Inside were two drawings. One of a small girl with large eyes and shadows hands. The other—a faceless woman with a wine glass and broken necklace.

“My sister,” Ms. Kaur said. “I tried telling my parents what she was going through. They didn’t believe me. Until it was too late.”

Silence.

“I’m not trying to scare you,” she continued softly. “I’m telling you—it’s okay if the first try fails. Try again. Louder, smarter, but never stop.”

Aanya took a deep breath.

Maybe slipping a letter wasn’t enough.

Maybe she needed her father to hear it with his own ears.

That night, she waited until her father went to shower. Slipped into his study.

Opened the laptop. Plugged in her phone.

Dragged the audio file to a folder labelled “Budget Docs.”

Then, she renamed it:

“Listen to This Before You Believe Her.mp3”