Some time later, an ambulance took Sira and her grandmother to the hospital. Unfortunately, her grandmother didn't make it.
Sira, still unconscious and badly wounded, was rushed into surgery. The doctors discovered that her spinal cord was severely damaged, and her neck bone had fractured. After hours of tense surgery, the doctors stepped out to face the family.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," one of them said gently. "We did our best, and we managed to save your daughter. But while operating on her spine, a major nerve was accidentally severed. I'm afraid her legs are permanently paralyzed. She may never walk again."
The family stood in stunned silence, eyes filling with tears.
Sira's grandmother was buried beneath the tree they had planted together. Days later, Sira, now in a wheelchair, was discharged from the hospital. She rolled herself to her grandmother's grave and wept—loudly, uncontrollably.
Eight years passed.
Sira now sat quietly near that same grave, under the same tree, tears running down her cheeks.
"Grandma... I'm not happy," she whispered.
She cried out louder. "Why did all this happen to me? Why did I become like this, Granny?"
Wiping her face, she began talking about school.
Back in school, Sira returned after a long absence. Her classmates were overly kind—offering help, treating her gently. They helped with her bag, her books, her chair. For a moment, she felt warmth in their attention.
But one day, she overheard something.
Two girls stood at a distance, whispering.
"What's with that girl? She acts like she's some queen or something," one said.
"Hey, don't say that. She's just weak. That's why everyone helps her," the other replied.
"No," the first girl said sharply. "She's not weak. She's just using her disability. You think people are helping her out of kindness? No, they're just putting on a show. She knows it. She's turning her weakness into an advantage."
Sira's heart dropped. Her hands began to tremble. In her mind, she saw those same smiles again—but this time, they felt fake, twisted. She imagined them whispering behind her back:
"What a shame. She's using her condition to get help."
Everything felt like a lie.
Back at her grandmother's grave, Sira wept.
"I'm sorry... for everything," she whispered.
Suddenly, the wind stirred around her. Her vision blurred. The light shifted.
And then—she was no longer beneath the tree.
She had been transported again.
The Place of Faith
She stood now in a realm beyond understanding. An endless sky shimmered above her, painted in hues of turquoise and gold. Glowing banyan trees stretched as far as the eye could see, their roots suspended midair, coiling into the void.
The trees had no leaves—only luminous peacock feathers growing from their branches, fluttering softly in a calm, divine wind.
All around her, open books floated gently, their pages turning by themselves. Hovering above them, feathers dipped like quills, writing glowing inscriptions in languages older than time. The letters flickered, shimmered, and vanished, as if the universe was rewriting itself in that very moment.
A hush filled the air. Light streamed down from above, bathing everything in a sacred glow. It felt timeless. Peaceful.
This was no dream.
It was the Place of Faith.
Where all stories are born. Where every future, every memory, is written in glowing ink.
Sira held a feather in her hand, smiling gently through her tears.
"After that day... my life began to glow," she whispered. "Just like these peacock feathers."
A white flash engulfed her.
She opened her eyes.
Now, she stood in a peaceful meadow. The sky was clear and endless. The grass below swayed gently in the wind. Birds sang in the distance.
And under a large banyan tree ahead—someone sat in a chair.
Sira stepped forward, breath trembling.
As she got closer, she saw her.
Her grandmother.
"Grandma!" she cried, running to embrace her.
Her grandmother opened her arms and held her. "You've grown tall, my dear."
Tears streamed down Sira's face as she held on tightly. "Why didn't you come back to me? I missed you so much."
Her grandmother gently stroked her hair. "This is the afterlife, Sira. I've always been with you, even if you couldn't see me."
"But how did I get here? What is this place?"
Her grandmother smiled. "As I said, this is the afterlife. It's not part of reality. But it's connected—to the trees we plant, to the lives we love. Every tree, every life, every event… is connected."
Sira sobbed softly. "I don't even want to live anymore. After I lost my legs, everything just felt... empty. Maybe my fate is to be alone forever."
Her grandmother cupped her face. "You're strong, Sira. Just like your tree. Even if you feel lonely, I'm always with you. So is your tree."
"This place… these glowing trees, the floating books…" Sira looked around in awe. "Is this the Place of Faith?"
Her grandmother nodded. "Yes. It's where everything in the world is written—the past, present, and future. Those glowing books hold it all. But your fate, Sira… your fate is still bright."
Sira sat up. "But if fate is already written… how can my future be beautiful?"
"Because we're connected to our trees," her grandmother said softly. "And the Place of Faith listens to those who believe. Just like I did… you can change your fate too."
She leaned closer. "When you return to the real world, go to my grave on my birthday. Sit under our tree. Wish for anything. And it will be granted.you can start a new path from then without your old self ..now one will remember your old one .then except you"
Sira's eyes lit up. "Only me? Why me, Grandma?"
Her grandmother smiled gently. "Because I loved you most. That love lives in our tree. When someone truly loved dies, their tree grants wishes to those they loved the most."
Sira choked up. "Then can I wish for you to come back? I want to be with you until I die…"
Her grandmother fell silent for a moment.
Then she spoke quietly. "Sira, you must let go to grow—just like the tree does. The afterlife is peaceful. I'm happy here. Please don't bring me back into pain. I'm with you always, just not in the way you expect."
Sira closed her eyes.
She understood.
A moment later, she found herself back under the banyan tree. It was her grandmother's birthday. The leaves rustled gently in the wind.
She folded her hands, whispered a prayer.
"Grandma… please… I want my legs to work again."
The wind hushed. She could hear the birds clearly. The world stood still.
And then—she stood.
She took a step.
She walked.
She danced beneath the tree, spinning, crying, laughing. For the first time in years—she was free.
A moment later, she awoke in her bed.
Had it all been a dream?
But she could walk.
She ran to her mother, tears streaming down her face. "I can walk! I can walk!"
Her mother embraced her tightly, crying with joy. "Your grandmother has blessed you."
"But… how did you know?" Sira asked. "How do you remember I was ever paralyzed?"
Her mother smiled. "Because I planted a tree too. Only those connected to the trees remember the change. Me, you, your brother—we're the only ones who remember you couldn't walk. For everyone else, it's as if you always could."
Sira was stunned. But somehow, it all made sense.
It didn't matter how.
All that mattered was—she wasn't broken anymore. Her grandmother was still with her. Maybe not
close enough to touch.
But always, always… watching from just beyond the branches.