Aanya stood on the stage at the youth exhibition, the microphone cold in her trembling hand. Her sketch board stood beside her, propped tall—a collage of drawings pulled from her soul. Eyes that looked away. A girl under rain that never stopped. A pair of hands reaching for someone already fading.

She took a breath. Her heart beat in her throat.

“Art,” she said, “was how I survived the silence.”

The words rippled through the space. Not shouted. Not dramatic. Just… truth.

In the back row, Rajeev sat motionless. His eyes brimmed with something ancient—guilt, yes, but also awe. Mitali sat beside him, arms folded, proud and quiet.

The audience clapped softly at first, then louder, until it felt like something lifting—something long trapped, finally learning how to breathe.

That night, they sat on the terrace. Just the two of them.

Aanya’s sketch lay between them on the floor—a drawing of three hands, entwined.

One hand, fading into starlight. One stitched with cracks and bruises. One small but strong, gripping both.

One gone.

One healing.

One learning.

Overhead, the stars didn’t blink.

They simply watched.

“I didn’t know if we’d ever sit like this again,” Rajeev said quietly.

“I didn’t either,” Aanya replied. Her voice held no edge. Just softness.

“I missed so much of you,” he added.

“I tried to tell you”, she said, a little more quietly.

“I know,” he nodded. “I see it now. All of it.”

In the weeks that followed, life didn’t turn perfect, but it turned forward.

Rajeev began leaving work early to pick her up from school. He cooked—with more smoke than success—and they laughed. Some nights were quiet. Some, a little hard. But none were filled with lies anymore.

They went through old photo albums together. He showed her the pictures he had locked away:

Aparna and Rajeev on their wedding day, shy smiles and bright marigolds.

Vacations at Palm Beach—Aparna in a yellow dress, feet in the tide, hair flying free.

Aparna, in the hospital, eyes tired but still shining, holding newborn Aanya against her chest.

And then—more solemn frames. Aparna’s last days. Her funeral. The stillness afterwards.

Aanya cried into his shoulder, and this time, he didn’t flinch. He held her like he should’ve all along.

Forgiveness didn’t come fast.

But it came.

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

Weeks Later

It was a quiet Thursday in her after-school art class. Aanya watched a young girl in the back, hunched over her sketchpad, pencil unmoving. She saw the signs—the hesitance, the fear of being seen.

She remembered.

That night, Aanya wrote a note and slid it into a small white envelope. She slipped in one of her hand-drawn bookmarks: a girl with wings made of folded paper, taking flight over a stormy ocean.

The next day, she left the envelope on the girl’s desk when no one was watching.

Inside, the note read:

“Your voice matters. Use it.”

Outside, spring had just begun to bloom.

The trees rustled like whispers finally being heard.

And somewhere, between grief and grace,

a paper wing caught the wind—

and soared.

The post Paper Wings Act III – Threads in the Wind appeared first on ZorbaBooks.

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.

The post The Sound of Unbreaking Act III – Threads in the Wind appeared first on ZorbaBooks.

It was Saturday morning. The sunlight slipped across the floor in golden strips, and the windows were open just wide enough to let the breeze stir the edges of the displayed sketches.

Aanya walked slowly along the display board, her fingers gently smoothing the corners of each pinned piece. One bookmark held a silhouette of a girl under an umbrella, standing alone. Another showed a pair of hands—one fading into dust, the other reaching after it.

“You sure about this?” Nisha asked, stepping in from the side with a box of thumbtacks.

“No,” Aanya said softly. “But I’m not hiding anymore.”

They worked in silence after that. The kind of silence where grief and hope sit beside each other, not fighting, just… waiting.

In the centre of the wall, Aanya placed the final sketch.

Her mother. Smiling gently, hand outstretched—as though reaching toward the viewer.

She stepped back.

It was ready.

Elsewhere, at Rajeev’s home…

The phone buzzed on the table. Rajeev reached for it absentmindedly.

Mitali Rajkonwar’s name flashed on the screen.

“If you truly care about your daughter,” she said as soon as he answered, “you’ll come.”

“Not to speak. Not to argue. Just… to look.”

He started to reply, but she kept going.

“And after that, open the envelope in your drawer. Play the audio file she sent. Then decide whether you’re ready to see the child who’s been screaming in silence under your roof.”

“You think Rhea saved your life. Maybe she did.”

“But don’t forget—her mother made it her mission to ruin our mother’s legacy. And Rhea… she picked up the torch.”

He froze. “What are you talking about?”

Years ago…

Two young women walked the campus lawns of Lady Irwin College.

Kamini Sharma—headstrong, graceful, always a step ahead—and Neela, her coursemate, who burned silently with ambition no one noticed.

Kamini was loved by students, teachers, and the community.

Neela? Overlooked.

Their rivalry began as small things—Kamini earning top honours, Kamini being elected to lead the cultural fest, and Kamini marrying well into a respected Delhi family.

But it deepened when Neela’s engagement fell apart, because the boy’s family preferred Kamini’s cousin instead.

And when Neela’s parents lost land due to a legal dispute—overseen by Kamini’s father-in-law, a bureaucrat—bitterness turned to venom.

And it worsened even further when Kamini, choosing a bride for her only son Rajeev, did not choose Neela’s daughter Rhea, despite her polished degrees and social standing.

Instead, Kamini chose a quiet, soft-spoken girl, Aparna Rajkonwar, from a not-so-well-to-do but honest and hardworking family in Dibrugarh—whose mother, Aarohi Chetia, had been in the same batch as her.

Kamini believed in integrity over appearance.

And that decision, made with love, planted the final thorn of resentment in Neela’s side.

They didn’t speak for years.

But Neela’s grudge festered like a wound that never healed.

When Kamini passed away after a quiet battle with illness, Neela barely offered condolences.

She told her daughter, Rhea, “That family takes what they want. If life offers you a way to take it back—do it.”

Back to the present

Rajeev sat frozen, the pieces falling into place.

“Rhea married me because she wanted comfort… but she hurt my daughter because her mother raised her to believe our family didn’t deserve happiness.”

Mitali’s voice cracked slightly.

“Don’t fail Aanya now.”

Later, at the school…

He wasn’t sure why he came.

He had seen the email, flagged it to read later, then… forgot.

Until this morning, when Mitali called him.

And now here he was.

He entered the art room quietly, unsure if he belonged.

Aanya stood at the far end, her back to him, rearranging a single sketch again and again.

Mitali sat beside the teacher in the corner, her eyes calm but firm.

Nisha gave him a small nod and stepped aside.

The silence wrapped around him.

Then, he looked.

He saw sketches of eyes that looked away, afraid to meet his.

Bookmarks curled with quotes about invisible pain.

A page filled with the word “Enough”—written over and over until the ink bled.

He saw his daughter.

Not the version filtered through Rhea’s words.

Not the quiet, obedient girl he thought he understood.

But this… raw, hurting, brave child who had been screaming into her sketchbook because no one else had listened.

Then he reached the centre.

And stopped.

Her mother’s sketch.

He blinked once.

Twice.

“I remember that saree,” he whispered.

Mitali stood up beside him.

“She remembers more than you think,” she said. “And you forgot more than you should’ve.”

He turned to her, eyes glassy. “Why didn’t she tell me—?”

“She did,” she interrupted. “She wrote to you. She left a letter. And an audio file. Both untouched. Still untouched.”

Rajeev opened his mouth, closed it.

Shame moved like slow ink through his spine.

“Open them,” she said. “And then decide if you still want your daughter to eat dinner across from you like a stranger. Or look you in the eyes again.”

He didn’t say a word.

Just stood there a little longer.

Looking.

And finally—seeing.

The post In the Quiet, Truth Waits appeared first on ZorbaBooks.

Mrs. Mrinalini Borphukon entered, her dupatta trailing behind her like a quiet breeze. She set down her files and looked at the younger teacher.

“You’re thinking of showing his daughter’s work to the father?” she asked softly, already knowing the answer.

Mrs. Kaur nodded, her brow furrowed. “I’ve seen too many children fold into themselves because the adults around them didn’t notice the cracks. Aanya… she’s been bleeding silently through every line she draws.”

Mrs. Borphukon sat down beside her, her voice lower now. “I should’ve paid more attention earlier. I knew something was wrong. I kept waiting for it to become visible enough to act.”

“She didn’t want it visible,” Mrs. Kaur said. “She wanted someone to ask before she broke.”

There was silence for some time.

Then Mrs. Borphukon reached over, gently touching the sketch on top—Aanya’s self-portrait with her mouth stitched shut.

“She reminds me of a student I once taught years ago. Silent, brilliant, slipping through the cracks. I promised myself I wouldn’t let another child drown in plain sight.”

Mrs. Kaur looked up. “Then we make sure this time… she is heard.”

They both stood.

Mrs. Borphukon smiled faintly. “Let’s set up a private showing. No noise. No crowd. Just the right people in the room—and her art doing the speaking.”

Mrs. Kaur exhaled slowly. “And if the father still doesn’t listen?”

“Then he wasn’t worthy of the truth to begin with,” Mrs. Borphukon said gently. “But at least the girl will know—she wasn’t invisible to all of us.”

The art room was quiet, lit only by the late afternoon sun slanting through the glass panes. Chalk dust floated in the air like memories.

Aanya stood at the display wall, clutching a few of her bookmarks and a sketch she hadn’t shown anyone before—her mother, drawn from memory. Long hair braided, a smile curled like sunlight on water.

Her art teacher stood beside her, hands folded, silent.

“She told me to speak my truth,” Aanya said finally, her voice low. “Even if no one listens. Even if it scares me.”

The teacher nodded. “Then let’s help them listen.”

Aanya turned. “How?”

“I’ve been thinking…” the teacher said, carefully. “There’s an open house next week. Parents will be around. But that might be too chaotic.”

She paused, then smiled gently.

“What if we do something more personal? A small showing. A few of your works—just for him. And maybe someone who can hold the silence with you, if he doesn’t.”

Aanya blinked. “Mahi.”

“Yes.”

The teacher moved closer to her desk, pulling out a small black portfolio.

“You’re not just confronting lies, Aanya. You’re showing him what he’s missed. What he’s overlooked. Let your art speak the parts your voice can’t yet.”

That evening, Aanya and her teacher drafted a short, simple invitation.

To: Mr. Rajeev Sharma

From: Mrs. Mrinalini Borphukon (HOD, Art Dept.)

Subject: Private Student Showcase

Dear Mr. Sharma,

I would like to invite you to a brief, personal showcase of select artworks created by Aanya Sharma, whose talent, art, and emotional depth have been significant in our creative community.

I believe this show will offer a unique perspective into her recent expressions and experiences. A small group, including her maternal aunt, will be present. We hope you’ll consider joining us.

With warmth and respect,

Mrs Mrinalini Borphukon

Aanya watched as her teacher hit “send.”

Her hands were cold. Her heart? On fire.

That night at her maasi’s, Aanya paced the small veranda.

“What if he doesn’t come?”

Maasi wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. “Then he loses more than you do. But he will come. He may be blind right now, but not heartless.”

Aanya looked at the moon, pale and round above the trees.

“I don’t want to hurt him. I just want him to see.”

“And that,” Maasi whispered, “is exactly why you’re strong enough to do this.”

The post Framing the Truth appeared first on ZorbaBooks.

Aanya hadn’t drawn that day. Her pencil felt heavy, like her hands didn’t know how to hold anything except the ache sitting in her chest.

She sat at the low wooden table, running her finger along the edge of a plate of mango slices, uneaten.

Her mahi leaned on the doorframe, eyes kind but quiet, as if she knew the words were coming, just not when.

And then, softly:

“It’s not just at home.

She’s been saying things. At school. Online, maybe.

People look at me like I’m a liar. Like I’ve done something dirty.”

Mahi sat across from her, gently placed her hand over hers.

“Who’s been saying things?”

Aanya looked down. “Rhea.”

“I… think she’s behind the rumours. That I’m sneaky. That I lie. I hang out with boys after school. Sell things to strangers. She says it quietly, sweetly, so no one sees the venom. But it’s her.”

Mahi was silent for a moment. Then she sighed. “And Rajeev?”

Aanya’s voice cracked. “He believes it. Or… he doesn’t want to believe me. It’s like… every time she whispers something, I lose a little more of him.”

A tear fell into her mango slice.

“I didn’t just lose my mom,” she whispered. “I’m losing my dad, too.”

Later that day, she texted Nisha.

“Can we meet? Just for a little while.”

Nisha replied within seconds.

They met outside a small stationery shop near the school.

Nisha pulled her into a hug before Aanya could say anything. “You, okay?”

“No,” Aanya said, voice muffled. “But I’m trying to be.”

They sat on a bench under the Gulmohar tree. Aanya showed her a printout—screenshots she’d quietly taken of a few anonymous posts in the school group chat. The kind that was vague enough to avoid punishment, but sharp enough to sting:

“Some people sell things behind their parents’ backs. Shame.”

“Caught a girl making bookmarks for cash. Desperate much?”

“Someone should tell her dad the kind of daughter he has.”

“I think Rhea’s using fake accounts… or feeding others lines to post,” Aanya said, her hands shaking a little. “She’s turning everyone against me without ever saying my name.”

Nisha was quiet for a moment, then nodded.

“We’ll fix this. You’re not alone, Aanya. Not anymore.”

Later, her art teacher, Mrs. Mrinalini Borphukon, found her by the storage room—eyes puffy, sketchbook untouched.

“I missed your brushstrokes,” the teacher said gently. “The ones that look like they’re trying to breathe.”

Aanya blinked at her.

“I’ve seen the changes,” the teacher continued. “You got quieter. Heavier. I didn’t know how to ask, but I’m here now.”

Something inside Aanya cracked open at that—just a little.

“I need help,” she said.

The teacher just smiled. “Then you’ll have it.”

That night, Aanya sat at her mahi’s desk.

The screenshots. The bookmarks. The journal page she’d found. The voice recording was still tucked into her old phone.

One last piece left: her mother’s photo.

She placed it gently in front of her.

“I’m going back,” she whispered.

“Not to stay quiet this time.”

The post Ties That Hold Act III – Shattered Illusions appeared first on ZorbaBooks.

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.

The post Where the Silence Bled Act II – Cracks in the Mirror appeared first on ZorbaBooks.

The envelope remained in his drawer. The audio file stayed untouched on his laptop—just another document waiting to be opened, shuffled in with budget reports and pending emails.

Rajeev kept meaning to check it.

He even hovered the mouse over the file one evening, thumb brushing the trackpad.

But Rhea called out from the hallway with that familiar softness, “Love, did you forget about the dinner with Mishra Sir? You promised…”

He closed the laptop.

“Later,” he thought.

Meanwhile, Rhea’s control turned subtler—and sharper.

She began “helping” with Aanya’s school matters.

Calling teachers without asking. Redirecting PTA notices to her phone.

Even dropping by school once with sweet excuses and carefully rehearsed concern.

“She’s not sleeping well,” she told the school counsellor. “She gets moody. Maybe it’s teenage hormones, but I just want her to feel supported.”

Aanya found out two days later, when the counsellor gently suggested a group therapy session for “stepfamily communication.”

At home, Rhea smiled as if she hadn’t just stolen her voice again.

“You’re welcome,” she said, slipping a mock-kind hand on Aanya’s shoulder.

In private, Aanya’s rage brewed.

She had proof. And a father who wouldn’t listen.

“What do I have to do?” she asked Nisha one afternoon on the rooftop, eyes stormy. “Do I have to scream in front of him? Smash his laptop open?”

Nisha frowned. “You’re not wrong, Aanya. But if you explode, you give her what she wants. She wants to make you look unstable.”

“She already has.”

At home, Rajeev began noticing other things—but said nothing.

How Aanya’s laughter, once loud and impulsive, had gone quiet.

How she barely looked at him now, as if choosing her words around landmines.

And how Rhea, for all her sweetness, never really asked about Aanya, just reported on her like an employee giving updates.

Still, he buried the questions under deadlines, meetings, and the constant need for peace. Conflict was messy. And Rhea? She was composed, gracious, and generous.

She looked like stability.

One evening, he found Aanya’s sketchbook open on the sofa.

A girl drawn in profile, screaming into a glass jar.

Around her, small words floated in bubbles:

You’re overreacting.

She means well.

You should be grateful.

It’s not that bad.

He stared at the page for a long time.

Then closed it.

Another time, maybe.

The post Glass Walls Act II – Cracks in the Mirror appeared first on ZorbaBooks.

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”

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She noticed it in the way Aanya didn’t flinch when spoken to.

In how she no longer asked for things, she observed instead.

In the quiet steadiness of her eyes that had once brimmed with hesitation.

And most of all, she noticed it when she found her bedroom door almost fully closed one afternoon, not quite as she’d left it.

Something had changed.

That night, over dinner, Rhea placed her fork down with delicate precision and sighed, dabbing at imaginary tears.

“Rajeev,” she said softly, “I’m starting to feel unsafe in my own home.”

Aanya froze with her spoon midair.

Rajeev turned immediately, concerned. “What happened?”

“It’s Aanya…” she whispered, voice quivering just right. “She’s been… lurking. Outside my room. Listening in. I don’t know what she’s thinking. I’m honestly afraid she might lash out.”

Aanya’s stomach turned. Rhea was turning the tables before she could even speak.

“Wait—what? That’s not—”

“See?” Rhea leaned back, fingers trembling faintly. “This tone. This defensiveness. I’ve tried so hard to bond with her, to be a mother figure, but she’s… distant. Angry. I don’t want her to hate me, Rajeev. But I won’t live in fear.”

Rajeev looked between them. Confused. Hesitant. But Aanya could see it—the seed had been planted. Again.

A familiar ache bubbled in her throat. He wanted to believe his wife. Not because he hated Aanya,

but because it was easier to believe she was just a teenager going through a phase than admit he had made a mistake.

Later, in her room, Aanya paced.

The recording was there. The truth.

And yet… showing it now felt like lighting a match in a room full of gasoline.

“Pick the right moment,” Nisha had warned over text.

“Not in the middle of a war. Choose a crack—when your dad starts to doubt. Then strike.”

Aanya opened her sketchbook and stared at the printout.

Rhea’s words, word for word.

“I’ve worked too hard for this life to let some moody brat ruin it.”

She slipped the page into an envelope, wrote “Read Me Alone” on it, and tucked it into her father’s briefcase.

No name. No signature.

A test.

The next morning, she watched him pick up the briefcase and leave for work, oblivious to the storm he now carried inside.

And she waited.

And wondered…

If truth were enough.

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That evening, the house was unusually still.

Rhea’s car was in the driveway, but her bedroom door was slightly ajar—something she never did. Aanya paused on the stairs, heart thudding, when she heard the faint hum of a phone call.

Then a voice. Sharp. Fast. Familiar.

“—Of course, he believes me. That’s the thing with men like Rajeev. You give them softness, a few tears, and they’ll hand you the steering wheel.”

Aanya’s blood turned cold.

She crept closer. Barefoot. Breath held.

Rhea was pacing inside, wireless earbuds in, back turned to the door.

“I told him Aanya’s been disrespecting me. Acting out. Not eating, lying, skipping class. The usual ‘troubled teenager’ act. You know the type.”

A pause. A laugh.

“He’s so desperate to keep this marriage peaceful, he’d rather believe I’m a victim than ask his daughter what’s going on.”

Aanya’s hand trembled as she slid her phone from her pocket.

Record.

“Honestly, the girl just reminds me too much of her mother. All that sensitivity and drama. I’ve worked too hard for this life to let some moody brat ruin it.”

Click.

Save.

The sound cut off suddenly. Aanya realized too late: silence had fallen.

Rhea turned.

“Aanya?”

She was at the doorway before Aanya could move.

“What are you doing here?”

“I—” Aanya fumbled; phone hidden behind her. “I was just going to the kitchen.”

Rhea’s eyes narrowed. But her tone stayed syrupy. “You should knock, darling. It’s rude to linger near someone’s bedroom.”

She stepped aside, a cool smile curling her lips. “Go on. Don’t keep yourself hungry.”

Aanya walked away slowly. Back straight. Chin high.

But inside, every nerve screamed.

She had the recording. Real proof.

Not just emotional bruises. Not just suspicion.

She texted Nisha the second she reached her room:

Aanya: I got her. I recorded everything. She admitted it.

Nisha: SEND IT TO ME RIGHT NOW.

Nisha: I’ll help back it up. This changes everything.

But Aanya knew something else too.

This wasn’t the end.

It was the beginning of a war she hadn’t asked for—but could no longer walk away from.

She backed up the file in three places.

Printed the transcript and hid it in a sketchbook.

And tucked the original recording behind a canvas in the art room the next day.

Just in case.

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