CHAPTER II
"Whispers from a Dying Line"
Some memories are better left buried — tucked away in the corners of our mind where they can't breathe life into old wounds. I've learned not to linger there too long. The past, after all, has teeth. And if you're not careful, it bites back.
But just as I tried to move forward, the world began unraveling again — not around me this time, but across the sea.
Germany.
A strange illness had begun to spread. Whispers turned into warnings, and warnings into sirens. The news was flooded with headlines soaked in dread — mystery symptoms, mass panic, cities locking down one by one. Something was coming… and no one knew how to stop it.
For Remi, it was more than just a distant horror.
It was home.
Her hands trembled every time she reached for her phone, hope clinging to her fingers like prayer. She tried again and again to call her family — her mother, her father, her younger brother. But each time, the line rang hollow. No answer. No voicemail. Just silence.
And silence… is the cruelest sound of all.
I could see it in her eyes — the panic she tried to hide behind a brave smile. The way her voice cracked when she told me, "Maybe they're just busy… Maybe the lines are down." But we both knew better.
Because when fear knocks at your door, the worst part isn't the chaos outside.
It's what it might already have taken from you inside.
Some say the past should remain in the past, buried like dust-covered relics beneath the weight of time and memory. And maybe they're right. Maybe there's no use chasing ghosts that no longer breathe. But some memories, no matter how far you try to push them away, have a way of clinging — of whispering in your ears when you're alone, reminding you of who you were… and who you're still trying to become.
But even as I wrestled with the shadows of my past, the present world was starting to fracture in ways we couldn't understand.
A strange disease had begun spreading through Germany — swift, silent, and ruthless. What started as whispers in the corners of late-night news reports quickly became front-page headlines: Unidentified Infection in Berlin, Munich Under Lockdown, Government in Silence.
It was as though something ancient had been awakened. And with every new headline, the fear grew.
Remi had become a ghost of herself — the light in her once fierce eyes dimmed, her smiles shorter, her silence louder. Germany was not just a dot on the map for her — it was her roots, her family, her everything. She tried calling her parents every day, every hour, her trembling fingers desperately pressing the same numbers as if sheer willpower could push the calls through.
But all she got… was silence.
Unanswered rings.
Dead air.
No dial tone.
Nothing.
It was a kind of helplessness no words could soothe. And I could see it breaking her piece by piece. Every time she hung up that phone, it was as if a little more of her hope cracked away.
Then came the news that stunned the world — Germany had cut off all communication.
No messages.
No broadcasts.
No responses.
It was as if the entire country had vanished behind a wall of static.
Governments panicked. Experts speculated. Conspiracies bloomed like wildflowers in fear-fueled soil. Was it a virus? Biological warfare? An experiment gone wrong?
No one knew.
And not knowing… that was the worst part.
The UK, in its desperation to pierce the silence, dispatched a select team of elite military operatives — the best of the best. Their orders were simple yet shrouded in dread: infiltrate, observe, and report. No one said it out loud, but we all felt it in our bones — they were walking into the mouth of something unspeakable.
Back at home, Remi was falling apart.
She tried to hide it — behind sarcasm, behind that strong exterior she wore like armor. But I knew better. I could see it in the way she lingered at the window, staring out at nothing. I could feel it in the silence between our conversations — once filled with laughter, now heavy with unsaid thoughts.
I couldn't bear to watch her break.
That's when the idea came to me — a change of place, a distraction, even if temporary.
My younger brother was getting married. The wedding was just a few days away, set in the heart of London. It was supposed to be a celebration of love, family, and new beginnings — things that felt so distant from what the world had become. Still, I thought… maybe, just maybe, this could be our moment to breathe again.
Maybe if I could convince Remi to come with me, she could find a sliver of peace, even if only for a weekend. She could dress up, dance, be surrounded by laughter instead of dread. Maybe the colors and music of the ceremony could paint over the fear, if just for a night.
And perhaps, in the glow of wedding lights and the soft hum of joy, she could feel again — not fear, not anxiety — but warmth.
A reminder that there was still beauty left in the world.
Still hope.
Still life.
And sometimes, even in the middle of chaos…
Love finds a way to bloom.
"The Reunion of Silence and Song"
I was never invited to the wedding.
No phone call.
No message.
Not even a passing mention.
And yet… I came.
Maybe it was foolish. Maybe I should've stayed away, spared myself the ache of stepping into a celebration that had already excluded me. But something deep inside — that stubborn flicker of hope that refuses to die — kept pulling me toward it. I told myself I was going for closure. For Remi. For curiosity. But the truth?
I went because I needed to feel like I still belonged somewhere.
I asked Remi to come with me — not just as a friend, but as a shield. She didn't ask questions. She just packed her bag and held my hand when I couldn't find the words to explain why my family could celebrate such joy… without me.
The flight to London was quiet, filled with thoughts neither of us dared say aloud. But when we landed, when the cab pulled up to the grand venue draped in golden silks and marigolds, my breath hitched.
This was my family.
This was their joy.
And I was walking straight into the heart of it — uninvited.
The crowd buzzed with color and movement — laughter rising in bursts like fireworks, music spilling from every corner. The scent of jasmine and turmeric clung to the air, a haunting reminder of everything I had once loved… and lost.
And then I saw her.
My mother.
Kalyani.
For a moment, the noise around me faded. She turned — perhaps drawn by instinct more than sound — and her eyes landed on mine.
She froze.
And then… she smiled.
It wasn't a hesitant smile, or one pulled tight with polite discomfort. It was soft. Open. Real. Her eyes welled with emotion, the kind that cracks the heart wide open. I saw longing there — not just for her child, but for the years we had lost. She stepped forward, arms slightly raised but trembling, as if unsure whether she had the right to hold me again.
She didn't need to ask.
I fell into her arms.
And in that embrace, I felt something break — something that had been locked inside me for far too long. Her fingers clutched at my back like she was afraid to let go. I closed my eyes, breathing in the scent of home, of childhood, of a mother's love that had always been there… buried beneath fear and pride.
My father stood a few steps behind her — Sathaydev, always composed, always unreadable. But today, he was different. His eyes were softer, shadowed with regret. He gave me a small nod, then a hand on my shoulder. Not a word was spoken. Not yet. But in that gesture, I felt something shift — an apology unspoken. A door creaking open.
For the first time in years, I felt like a daughter again.
But that illusion, that fragile dream, shattered the moment I turned… and saw him.
Anand.
My younger brother.
His eyes were colder than the London wind, his stare a silent blade that sliced through the fragile peace I had barely begun to taste. He didn't say anything, didn't need to. The way his jaw tightened, the way his gaze raked over me and then dismissed me like I was a stain on his perfect evening — it was enough.
I flinched.
But only for a second.
Because I had Remi's hand in mine. And the warmth in my mother's eyes. And the silent softness in my father's touch.
Anand's disapproval still hurt — more than I cared to admit — but it no longer had the power to destroy me.
Not here.
Not now.
As the ceremony unfolded — vibrant, breathtaking, overflowing with joy — I found myself surrounded by faces I had once known intimately. Relatives. Friends. Strangers who used to be family. Their laughter rang like distant echoes from another life. A life I once lived. A life that had shut me out.
And yet, standing there among them, something stirred within me — something bittersweet and whole. A longing, yes. But also a quiet peace. Because for all the pain, for all the abandonment…
I was still part of this.
Still someone's child.
Still remembered.
My father pulled me aside later, his voice low and unsure.
> "Come back home," he said. "To India. For a while. We… miss you."
I didn't answer right away.
Because how do you explain that home is no longer a place — it's a person? A feeling? A heartbeat shared with someone who chooses you, even when the world doesn't?
Still, his words settled in my chest like seeds.
Maybe not today.
But someday… maybe.
For now, I let the music carry me. I let Remi pull me into a slow dance beneath the fairy lights. And in that fleeting moment — surrounded by colors, forgiveness, and scars — I found something I hadn't felt in a long, long time.
Belonging.
"The Whisper Beneath the Storm"
Yet even in the warmth of reunion, a knot of fear pulled tight in my chest — silent and suffocating. It was the kind of fear that doesn't come with screaming or panic, but with stillness… a breath held too long. I didn't want to return — not really. Maybe it wasn't the place I feared, but the reflection it would force me to face. The self I had buried under layers of exile and reinvention. The mistakes I had never forgiven. The questions I never found the courage to answer. The idea of going back felt like stepping into a mirror I had spent years avoiding — a descent into a labyrinth of ghosts and shadows. And I wasn't sure I would find myself again on the other side.
Anand Jha — my younger brother — had everything anyone could hope for. He was a manager at Microsoft, his name carved into respect, his future paved in certainty. His salary was enviable, his reputation untarnished. And as if the universe smiled down on him too, he found Sakshi Singh — brilliant, poised, graceful. Their marriage was arranged in the traditional way, yet looking at them, you'd think they were soulmates who'd stumbled upon each other by fate. They didn't just coexist; they danced through life hand-in-hand, eyes full of laughter and quiet devotion.
My sister, Rahi Jha, was no different in her excellence. A technical engineer with an unyielding mind, she chased success with a fire that often left the rest of us breathless. Her husband, Mithlesh, also a technical engineer, shared her spark, her passion for innovation. Another arranged marriage, and yet, theirs was a house built on laughter and mutual respect. Watching them felt like watching a well-written story unfold — one where every chapter was just as beautiful as the last.
Our family, in many ways, had always been a portrait of success — ambitious, diligent, traditional. They followed the roadmap of societal expectations and carved gold from it.
And me?
I once thought I'd walk that same path. But somewhere along the way, I took a turn no one expected — especially not me.
In our culture, elder sisters are supposed to marry first. It's a rule unwritten but engraved into every ritual, every conversation. Yet I found myself standing still while the world spun forward, watching Anand and Rahi find joy, find love… and wondering if that joy was ever meant for someone like me.
That night, as the television cast flickering shadows across the walls of our living room, we all sat together — Remi nestled quietly beside me, my mother's hand resting in her lap, my father's brow furrowed with concern.
The evening news began like it always did — calm at first, predictable — until it wasn't.
Germany.
A name now drenched in fear.
The screen showed trembling images: all the Army officers the United Kingdom had dispatched there were dead — except one.
And he was no longer a man.
The survivor was more horror than human, a walking wound of exposed flesh and empty eyes. His skin torn, uniform drenched in dried blood, he stared into the distance like he was still trapped in whatever nightmare he'd crawled out of. He couldn't speak. Couldn't blink. Could barely breathe.
What had he seen?
What had Germany become?
They took him to a military hospital, desperately hoping to salvage something — anything — of the truth. But days passed, then weeks, and the man remained unchanged. A silent scream behind vacant eyes.
Then the network did something bold — they sent a reporter and her cameraman inside.
I remember gripping Remi's hand tighter as the feed cut to the hospital room. The officer sat motionless, gaunt and pale beneath the fluorescent light. The reporter asked him questions, her voice shaking. We all leaned forward, every heart in the room thudding in sync.
And then, chaos.
The doctors emerged, grave-faced, announcing the officer had passed away.
Dead.
But before they could finish…
The corpse moved.
It jolted upright with a grotesque snap of bone and sinew, lunging at the cameraman. Its body twisted in ways no body should. A scream tore through the broadcast — raw and high-pitched — before the screen cut to black.
Silence fell over the house like a shroud.
None of us spoke.
The questions clawed at the walls of our minds, unanswered and echoing:
What had happened in Germany?
What had he become?
And more terrifyingly… was it over?
The stillness afterward was unbearable. My family huddled into one another, speaking in hurried whispers, trying to calm themselves with empty reassurances. But the fear was already in the air, like smoke seeping through the cracks.
Remi stood by the table, frozen. Her face drained of all color, her hands trembling so violently I could hear her nails clicking against the wood. I knew exactly what she was thinking.
Her family.
Still in Germany.
Still unreachable.
She didn't need to speak — her eyes screamed everything her lips couldn't form. Panic. Grief. Dread.
And then, in the middle of that storm, my father stepped forward — his presence as steady as ever. He placed a gentle arm around Remi's shoulder and said softly, "Remi beta, don't worry. Everything will be okay. Believe in God."
His voice was like a warm blanket — tender, certain — even in the face of the unknown.
My mother echoed the sentiment, wrapping her arms around Remi. "Please don't worry. We're all here with you."
Remi managed a small, broken smile. "Thank you," she whispered, before quietly retreating to her room, closing the door behind her with a soft click — shutting out the noise, but not the fear.
I stood there, watching the closed door, my heart aching for her. For all of us.
Then my mother turned to me, concern painted across her face.
"Sam, go check on her. She needs you. Talk to her."
I shook my head gently. "Mom… Remi just needs time. She's strong. She just needs to cry in peace."
My mother gave me a teasing look. "Some girlfriend you are — can't even take care of your girlfriend."
I laughed quietly at her assumption. "Mom, Remi's not my girlfriend. She's like a sister to me. Besides, she's 22 — Anand's age. I'm 25."
She blinked, surprised. "What? You don't even have a girlfriend?"
Then came the question — sharp, yet soft — the one every Indian mother has stored like a well-polished dagger:
"Then why don't you get married?"
I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
Instead, I walked outside — into the garden, into the night — and let the cool breeze wrap around me like a silent companion.
Above me, the stars blinked indifferently.
And for a long moment… I just stood there.
Alone.
But not defeated.
Not yet.
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To be continued...