A month had passed since the only man who treated her like a daughter—Rajan's father—was buried beneath the cracked earth.
And now the house echoed with silence.
Anika sat on the floor, knees hugged to her chest, a shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Her eyes were rimmed red, but no tears came anymore. Not because the pain had faded, but because it had sunk too deep, become part of her bones.
She was only sixteen, but the village men didn't care. They lingered outside, watching her every move, whispering when she fetched water or walked to the grocer. Some knocked under the guise of checking in. Others stared openly when she cleaned the veranda.
Every door she bolted. Every night, she kept a sickle by her side. Her heart never stopped racing.
She had no one now.
And yet—every night, she whispered his name.
"Rajan... why did you leave me?"
She clutched the faded cotton shirt he'd once worn—still faintly carrying his scent. It was all she had left.
"You said I should teach our children..." Her voice cracked. "You said you'd never let anyone hurt me."
She looked around at the empty house. It was no palace, but it was the only place she ever felt safe. And now even that safety was fragile, clinging on by a thread.
A sudden knock startled her.
Not one of them again, please.
She hesitated, grabbing the sickle before slowly opening the door.
Her breath caught.
Her parents stood there.
Her father, tall and sharp-featured, wore his usual stiff expression. Her mother looked older than she remembered—skin pale, eyes rimmed with worry.
"Anika..." her mother's voice wavered. "We've come to take you home."
She didn't move. Her grip on the sickle tightened—not because they were a threat, but because her past was.
Her father cleared his throat. "This village isn't safe. You're alone. You should come back with us. We'll... protect you."
Anika stared at them blankly.
Then, slowly, she opened the door wider and stepped aside. Not to invite them in—but to stand tall.
Her voice came calm, steady. "This is my home."
Her mother blinked, confused. "Anika—"
She looked them both in the eye. "This is my home. I'm not going anywhere."
Her father's jaw twitched. "You can't stay here alone. What will people say?"
She smiled bitterly. "They already say everything they want. They whisper when I walk. They call me cursed. They stare like I'm meat. I've heard it all."
Her mother's lips trembled. "That's why you must come home."
"No," Anika said firmly. "Because that's not my home."
Her parents fell silent.
"I'm not your daughter," she said quietly, but the weight in her voice silenced even the wind. "I'm just a burden. In fact, I never really was your daughter. Just a girl to be married off as soon as possible."
Her father's voice rose. "That's not true! We thought—"
"You thought?" Her voice sharpened. "When I begged to study, you thought I was being stubborn. You thought marrying me was easier than letting me dream."
She shook her head, eyes shining but fierce. "You never gave me a choice. You married me away because I wasn't worth the investment. Not like your son."
Her mother began to cry. Her father clenched his fists.
Anika continued, her tone unwavering. "Even if Rajan married me against my will... he never forced me into anything. Not once. He waited. He respected my silence, my pain, my fear. He loved me—not for who he wanted me to be, but for who I was."
She stepped closer.
"And in just a few weeks... he gave me more dignity than you did in sixteen years."
"Anika—"
"No. I am Anika Rajan, not the girl you pushed out of your house to save your honor. Being his wife—even for a short time—was enough. He gave me a name I'm proud to wear. A home I feel safe in. Even in death... he didn't abandon me. His memories protect me more than your words ever could."
Her father looked stunned. Her mother sank to her knees, sobbing.
Anika's voice grew soft, but unshakable. "You didn't protect me when I needed it. You only came now because you're afraid of shame. Not because you care."
Her father opened his mouth, but nothing came.
She inhaled deeply, heart racing but gaze clear. "I don't want to be your burden anymore. You were too late the day you signed those marriage papers."
She placed her hand on the doorframe—the same one Rajan had leaned on when he said goodbye that morning before the accident.
"I don't need your protection now," she whispered. "Don't worry. I won't die just like that. I'll live. I'll learn. I'll fight. And I'll carry his name with pride."
For a long moment, none of them spoke.
Her mother reached out weakly. "Please... just come home."
Anika gave the faintest of smiles.
"I already am."
Then, with no anger—just finality—she gently closed the door.
Outside, the wind howled through the fields.
Inside, Anika picked up Rajan's shirt and held it to her chest.
"I'll live, Rajan," she whispered into the fabric. "For both of us."