The long shadows of the palace swallowed the last light of day, but in Shivanya's room, a soft lamp cast a gentle glow. The chilling echo of Bhavya Pratap Rathore's words still reverberated in Shivanya's small chest, a terrifying secret now cemented into her core.
She stood by the window, hands clasped, feigning interest in the sprawling gardens below. Her heart, however, was a frantic drum against her ribs.
A soft knock. The door creaked open.
Jeevika, her own eyes still red-rimmed and heavy, stepped inside. She saw Shivanya's rigid posture, the way her little sister seemed to shrink into herself. The elder sister's heart ached with a familiar pain, a mirror of her own unspoken grief. Without a word, Jeevika crossed the room.
Shivanya turned, and in an instant, the carefully constructed barrier around her shattered. She launched herself at Jeevika, burying her face in her Didi's stomach. Jeevika held her tight, a desperate anchor in a world that had tilted off its axis.
They stayed there for a long moment, two sisters, clinging to the last fragments of their shattered world. Then, Shivanya slid to the floor, resting her head on Jeevika's lap, a small, fragile weight of trust.
Another gentle knock. This time, the door swung open to reveal Mrinalini Bua Ji. Behind her, two girls, wide-eyed and curious, peered into the room.
"Jeevika beta," Mrinalini Bua Ji said, her voice soft, "I wanted you and Shivanya to meet your cousins properly." She gestured to the girls beside her. "This is Preesha," she smiled at the elder girl, "she's twelve. And this mischievous one," her eyes twinkled faintly as she looked at the younger girl, "is Chandu. She's ten. They're my daughters, your cousins."
Preesha offered a shy, sympathetic smile. Chandu, with a lively sparkle in her eyes, waved a little hand.
Suddenly, a blur of motion. A boy, all restless energy, darted past Mrinalini Bua Ji, grinning widely. He had a mischievous glint in his ten-year-old eyes.
"And I'm Virat!" he announced, puffing out his chest before anyone else could speak. "Your cousin brother! I already know you're Jeevika Didi and Shivanya Didi!" He beamed, clearly proud of his self-introduction.
Niharika Singh, Virat's Mom, appeared behind him, shaking her head with an amused, exasperated sigh.
"Virat, for heaven's sake," Niharika said, a soft chuckle escaping her. "Couldn't you let me introduce you properly?"
Before the moment passed, Charumati Rathore Singh stepped forward, a gentle smile on her face. Beside her stood a girl with quiet, observant eyes, about ten years old.
"And this is Pragati," Charumati Tai Ji said, placing a reassuring hand on the girl's shoulder. "My daughter. She is your cousin sister, too."
Pragati gave a small, polite nod.
Then, a taller figure stepped into the doorway. Ram, a sixteen-year-old with a steady gaze and an air of quiet authority. He looked from Jeevika and Shivanya to the gathered cousins, a sense of responsibility etched on his features.
"I'm Ram," he stated, his voice calm and deep for his age. "Adityaveer Singh's son." He paused, his gaze meeting Jeevika's. "And I'm your elder brother.
If you have any complaint, any problem at all, with these remaining cousins," he gestured broadly to the others, a faint, comforting smile touching his lips, "you tell me. I will be there." He ended with a firm nod, a silent promise.
The room, moments ago hushed with unspoken grief, now held a new, cautious energy. New faces, new names, new promises.
For Jeevika, it was overwhelming, a sea of unfamiliar warmth in the wake of such cold loss.
For Shivanya, tucked into Jeevika's lap, it was a complex tapestry of safety and terrifying secrets, woven with threads of kindness and the chilling shadow of a hidden threat.
The grand introduction of cousins settled into the quieter rhythm of the evening.
The younger ones, initially excited, now found themselves subdued by the heavy atmosphere of grief that permeated the palace. As night deepened, a different kind of challenge emerged.
In a hushed corner of the dining hall, Mrinalini Singh and Charumati Rathore Singh tried gently to coax Shivanya to eat. A plate of delicately prepared food sat before the ten-year-old, untouched.
"Shivanya beta, you must eat something," Charumati Tai Ji murmured, her voice soft with concern. She tried to spoon a small morsel of rice towards Shivanya's lips. "Just a little, for strength."
Shivanya's small head shook slowly, a resolute refusal. Her eyes remained fixed on the plate, but her gaze was distant, lost in a world no one else could access. She wouldn't open her mouth.
Mrinalini Bua Ji sighed, her hand resting gently on Shivanya's back. "She hasn't eaten a bite since… since it happened," Mrinalini said, her voice laced with worry. "We've tried everything."
Just then, Jeevika, who had been observing from a silent distance, moved. The sight of her little sister's stubborn refusal, the quiet pain in her eyes, stirred something deep within her. It was a faint echo of the life they once shared, a memory of routine and comfort.
Without a word, Jeevika turned and walked purposefully towards the sprawling palace kitchen. The kitchen was a magnificent, bustling space, even at this hour, filled with the aroma of spices and the quiet clatter of pots.
Moments later, Mrinalini Singh and Niharika Singh followed her, their expressions a mix of curiosity and concern. They found Jeevika standing on a stool, reaching for a high shelf, her young brow furrowed in concentration.
"Jeevika beta, what are you doing?" Niharika asked gently, stepping closer. Her voice was kind, but tinged with confusion. "We just told you, Shivanya isn't eating. We've tried."
Mrinalini looked at the raw ingredients laid out on the counter.
"Why are you cooking, dear?" she inquired, her tone soft. "It's been a long day. You should rest."
Jeevika turned, her gaze steady, a flicker of fierce determination in her tear-weary eyes.
She looked from Mrinalini Bua Ji to Niharika Mami.
"She will eat," Jeevika stated, her voice quiet but firm. "Shivanya will eat." She picked up a bowl, her movements precise, almost mechanical.
"She only eats food that Sakshi Maa cooks," Jeevika continued, her voice growing softer as she spoke her mother's name. "Or Prachi Maa's food." She paused, then met their gazes directly. "And mine."
A hush fell in the kitchen. The words hung in the air – a testament to the shattered lives, the irreplaceable loss, and the fierce, unyielding bond between the two orphaned sisters.
Jeevika, at fourteen, had just taken on the mantle of protector and provider, attempting to conjure comfort from the depths of her own grief, hoping the familiar taste of her hands could somehow heal her sister's silent pain.
The aromas from the kitchen, usually a source of comfort, felt alien in the grand dining hall. But in Shivanya's room, a different scent began to waft through the air. Jeevika emerged from the kitchen, a small plate held carefully in her hands.
The contents were simple: a small portion of soft khichdi, cooked with a precision that belied her years and the chaos of her mind.
She walked towards Shivanya, who was still sitting silently on the floor, head resting in Jeevika's lap.
Mrinalini and Niharika watched from the doorway, their eyes fixed on the sisters, hope mingling with despair.
Jeevika knelt fully, gently shifting Shivanya so she could face her. The plate was offered, the steam curling delicately.
"Shivanya," Jeevika whispered, her voice soft but firm, a quiet command. "Eat." 🥄
Shivanya's eyes, still dry and eerily distant, flickered to the plate, then to Jeevika's face. Her lips remained pressed together. She subtly turned her head away. A silent, stubborn refusal.
Jeevika's jaw tightened. A familiar ache, deeper than grief, settled in her chest. It was the ache of responsibility, of seeing her little sister break and feeling utterly helpless.
But then, a flicker of something fierce ignited within her. Anger. Not at Shivanya, but at the situation, at the unfairness of it all. At the loss that had stolen not just their parents, but Shivanya's very will.
Jeevika put the plate down. She gently cupped Shivanya's face, forcing their eyes to meet. Her own eyes, though still red, held an unwavering intensity. The words came out, raw and unfiltered, born from the depths of her pain and a desperate, newfound resolve.
"You only lost our parents, Shivanya. Not me," Jeevika said, her voice trembling slightly but clear. "I am still here. Do you understand?" Her thumb stroked Shivanya's cheekbone.
Then, her voice dropped, thick with emotion, heavy with a promise. "I am not only your sister now." Jeevika pulled Shivanya closer, their foreheads touching. "I will be your mother now."
The words hung in the quiet room, a solemn vow. For Jeevika, they were a declaration, a burden willingly taken.
For Shivanya, they were a lifeline in an empty sea, a fragile anchor in a world turned to ash. The little girl's eyes, for the first time, seemed to truly see Jeevika, a glimmer of something breaking through her stoic mask.
The vast palace, with its unfamiliar grandeur, eventually settled into the deep quiet of night. In the ornate room assigned to them, Shivanya and Jeevika lay curled together on a large, soft bed.
The faint glow of a nightlight cast gentle shadows across their faces, a stark contrast to the terrifying darkness that had swallowed their world. Exhaustion had finally claimed Jeevika, pulling her into a restless sleep, Shivanya tucked securely beside her.
But for Shivanya, sleep offered no escape.
In the middle of the night, a silent scream tore through her. Her small body stiffened, a low whimper escaping her lips. Her eyes, still closed, twitched behind their lids as the nightmare seized her.
She was back there. In the heart of the inferno. Not the fire itself, but the chilling moments before it. The shadows danced, not from flames, but from a figure moving in the pre-dawn gloom.
Bhavya Pratap Rathore. His face, contorted by a chilling resolve. Then, her mother, Sakshi Maa, stood before him. Her eyes wide with terror, not understanding. The glint of metal. A swift, brutal movement. A gasp. The wet, sickening sound of flesh being torn.
Bhavya Pratap Rathore. He stabbed her. Blood bloomed like a dark rose on Sakshi Maa's clothes. Jeevika's mother fell, her eyes glazing over, the life draining away. The image seared itself into Shivanya's young mind, a horrifying, indelible stain.
And then, the roar of the fire, consuming everything, erasing the crime.
"No... not now... noooo!" Shivanya cried out in her sleep, her voice a thin, reedy whimper that barely broke the silence.
Her hands instinctively clawed at the bedsheets, her body trembling violently.
Jeevika stirred, jolted awake by the soft, desperate sounds. Her eyes fluttered open, instantly sharp with concern. She sat up, pulling away slightly to look at Shivanya.
"Shivanya? What happened?" Jeevika whispered, her voice laced with worry, reaching out to gently shake her sister's shoulder. "Are you okay?"
Shivanya's eyes snapped open, wide and glazed with terror. Her breath came in ragged gasps. She stared at Jeevika, then around the unfamiliar room, the nightmare clinging to her like a shroud.
The words of Bhavya Pratap Rathore echoed in her mind: 'If you tell what happened that day to anyone,
especially Jeevika... Jeevika will die.' The silent truth solidified into an unbearable weight.
She didn't say anything. Not now. And never. Not yet. Her lips pressed into a thin, grim line, and her eyes, still hauntingly dry, held the unspeakable.
Jeevika, sensing the profound, unyielding silence, pulled Shivanya closer. She wrapped her arms tightly around her trembling sister, pressing Shivanya's head against her chest.
"Shhh, it's okay," Jeevika murmured, stroking Shivanya's hair. "I'm still here. You can sleep peacefully. I'm right here."
Shivanya, still shaking, instinctively moved, seeking the familiar comfort. She shifted, laying her head on Jeevika's lap, her small body curled into a ball. Jeevika's touch, her warmth, was a fragile shield against the horrors her mind refused to forget.
And then, softly, tenderly, Jeevika began to sing. It was a lullaby, familiar and sweet, a melody carried from a time before ashes and nightmares.
The same lullaby that Sakshi Maa used to sing to both of them, long ago, in another life. Her voice, though raw with grief, filled the quiet room, a fragile beacon of love in the overwhelming darkness.
But even in that tender embrace, a silent terror simmered in Shivanya's young heart, a nightmare of betrayal and blood, proving that some wounds run deeper than fire, and some secrets can kill.
___________________________________