Where the Silence Bled Act II – Cracks in the Mirror

The house had never felt colder, though the summer heat outside pressed against the windows like a living thing. It wasn’t the weather. It was her. Rhea’s voice, too measured. Rajeev’s silence, too long. And the way Aanya had begun to feel like a ghost in her own home, present, but unseen.

That morning, the tension that had been simmering finally spilt.

Rhea stood in the living room, her arms folded, an expression of composed disappointment painting her face like a mask. Between her fingers, she held a printed page—crisp, incriminating.

“I found this in her bag,” she said smoothly, lifting the transcript like evidence at a trial. “Buried in a sketch folder.”

Aanya’s heart sank. She had hidden it carefully. That transcript—typed out from the voice recording she had captured—was her only proof. Her last defence.

Rajeev took the page. His brow furrowed as he scanned the lines—lines laced with Rhea’s unmistakable voice. The cruel things she had said when she thought no one was listening.

“It’s fake,” Rhea said before he could speak. Calm. Calculated. “Probably something from a podcast or spliced together with an app. Kids these days…”

“She wants to make me the villain, Rajeev,” she added, voice trembling just enough. “But I’ve always loved her. Like my own.”

Aanya could barely breathe.

“It’s real,” she said, her voice low but steady. “That’s your wife. That’s what she says when no one’s watching.”

Rajeev looked between them, lips parting—then closing again. His silence spoke volumes. A war was raging behind his eyes: reason against comfort. Truth against the illusion he had clung to for so long.

And then Rhea stepped forward, all velvet and command. “I think Aanya should spend some time with your sister-in-law. A change of environment might help her reset.”

Exile. But spoken like kindness.

Aanya didn’t cry. Didn’t plead. She simply turned, walked to her room, and began to pack—not for her aunt’s house, but for the unknown. A worn notebook. Sketch pencils. Her mother’s photo—soft-eyed and full of strength. She slipped it into the front pocket of her bag like a compass.

The train station reeked of iron dust and old departures. Aanya sat on a rusted bench, hugging her backpack, blinking fast. Alone. But not defeated.

Then it came—a scent, faint and familiar. Hospital soap. Warm cotton. A memory rose like a tide.

White bedsheets. A soft beep in the background. Her mother’s hand, cold but unshakable, wrapped around hers.

“Always speak your truth, Aanya,” she had said, her voice thin as wind. “Even if your voice shakes. Even if no one listens the first time. Truth has legs. It will stand one day.”

Aanya inhaled deeply. And stood.

She wouldn’t run. Not from Rhea. Not from her father’s silence. Not from the fire growing in her chest.

She didn’t need much—just enough for bus rides, sketch paper, and maybe a chocolate bar. Something sweet. Something that didn’t come with strings.

So, she drew.

Every night, after lights-out, Aanya curled up by the window with her pencil set and let her soul bleed onto card stock. Wolves howling at the moon. Girls with wings too big for their backs. Hands reaching out in the dark.

Each bookmark she made whispered a piece of her truth.

She passed them quietly to Nisha at school. “See if anyone wants a couple?”

Nisha smiled. “Your art deserves to be seen. Even if it’s just between pages.”

The bookmarks began to sell. Fifteen rupees here. Twenty there. Coins that felt more like dignity than currency.

But freedom, even hand-drawn, was not something Rhea would allow.

It happened on a Friday.

Rhea had come early to school to collect some documents. She never walked the back lawn. But fate can be cruel.

There was Aanya, laughing with two younger girls, holding bookmarks like they were fireflies.

Rhea didn’t interrupt. She didn’t need to.

Her silence was the sound of a storm gathering.

Dinner was tight with tension.

“I had the strangest little moment today,” Rhea said sweetly, voice dipped in honey. “Saw a familiar face at school. Selling bookmarks.”

Rajeev blinked. “Selling?”

Rhea turned to Aanya with that lace-curtain smile. “Want to explain, sweetheart?”

Aanya didn’t flinch. “I needed money. You keep saying no.”

“You didn’t ask today.”

“Because you would’ve said no. Again.”

“I’m trying to teach you discipline, not turn you into a hawker,” Rhea snapped.

Rajeev opened his mouth, but no words came.

“I’m not hurting anyone,” Aanya said firmly. “I made drawings. That’s not a crime.”

“Then why hide it?” Rhea’s voice sharpened. “What if someone thought you were loitering? Talking to strangers?”

Aanya’s voice trembled, but held.

“Because you’ve made everything, I do feel wrong.”

The words hung in the air, sizzling.

Rajeev looked from one to the other. Silent. Always silent.

Aanya pushed her chair back and walked away. Her dinner was untouched. Her coins—her quiet victories—hidden under her mattress.

She didn’t run away this time.

She called her mahi.

And her mahi came.

It had been years since she stepped foot in her mother’s childhood home. But the moment she crossed the threshold, it smelled like memory—Haldi, sandalwood, and sun-dried bedsheets.

Her mahi didn’t interrogate her. She hugged her. Made warm rotis. Tucked her in with old cotton blankets and old lullabies.

For the first time in months, Aanya slept without nightmares. She laughed again. She drew again.

One morning, Mahi found a bookmark on the nightstand and held it like a relic.

“She would’ve been proud of you,” she whispered.

“I don’t know what to do,” Aanya said, voice breaking.

“Then don’t rush. But don’t hide either,” Mahi replied. “You carry her truth, Aanya. You always have.”

On the third morning, rain stitched the sky in crooked lines.

Aanya stood by the window, holding her mother’s photo. Her fingers brushed the glass.

And again—

White sheets.

A hiss of oxygen.

That hand in hers. That voice is like soft thunder.

“Always speak your truth, Aanya. Even if your voice shakes. Even if no one listens the first time. Truth has legs. It will stand one day.”

She packed her bag.

Not because she was being sent away.

But because she was ready.

This time, she wasn’t running from something.

She was walking toward it.