She didn't remember falling.
Only the silence that came after.
When Maya opened her eyes, the world had changed again.
The lights above were no longer blinding white — they were soft, trembling, like candle flames seen through water. The scent of metal and medicine had disappeared.
She wasn't in the lab.
She wasn't surrounded by machines.
And for the first time in what felt like centuries, she wasn't in pain.
She was home.
At least, what they called home.
Her body felt weightless, floating somewhere between sleep and waking. The memories — the injections, the burning, the man's voice whispering "The darkness of hell" — still echoed faintly inside her bones, but the noise was far away now, like thunder rolling over a distant sea.
And she was in someone's arms.
Anik.
His breath was uneven, his shirt torn, his eyes red. There was blood on his sleeve — her blood, maybe — but he didn't seem to care. He carried her like something sacred, something too fragile to ever be touched again. Through the corridors, through the screaming and confusion and lights flashing red, through the guards who didn't dare stop him.
No one did.
Because when Maya was in his arms, even the air trembled — unsure if it still had the right to move around her.
He didn't speak.
Not one word.
He just held her closer as they drove — in silence, through the long road that cut through the sleeping city — until the gates of the Sunayna mansion appeared like shadows of memory.
The mansion waited for them like an ancient guardian — silent, massive, full of secrets. Its windows were still lit, though the night was deep. Inside, the chaos had already begun.
Mahi rushed forward, her hands trembling, her hair half undone. Mahim stood at the foot of the stairs, frozen — the father who could command nations, but not the storm that lived within his daughter. Fahim bent beside the couch, trying to take Maya's pulse, his doctor's calm almost breaking. Farhan hovered nearby, his lips moving in silent prayer. Fahad shouted something — no one heard what. The air was thick with fear, with questions, with the raw ache of helplessness.
And through it all, Maya said nothing.
Even when her eyes opened fully.
Even when she was wrapped in blankets, surrounded by warmth and the sound of her own name repeated again and again — she said nothing.
She sat upright on her bed, her black hair cascading like liquid shadow down her back. Her eyes were open but distant — like someone looking through a mirror, not at it.
No tears.
No scream.
No breath that trembled.
Only silence.
A silence so heavy it seemed to bend the air around her.
Days passed.
Three, maybe four.
No one could tell anymore — time had lost its rhythm in that house. Every clock ticked slower when she was near. Every voice softened as if afraid of breaking something unseen.
She barely ate.
She barely moved.
Sometimes, she would sit by the window at night, staring at the moon's reflection in the dark glass, her fingers tracing invisible symbols in the air — the echoes of powers she once feared, now sleeping within her.
And then, one afternoon, three guests arrived.
Family — but almost strangers.
Nahi, twenty years old, bright-eyed and kind. She wore lilac and silver, and her smile had the calm of spring.
Nova, nineteen — curious, restless, clever, and always tapping something with his fingers, as if he couldn't stand still for too long.
And the youngest, Raya, six — all curls, laughter, and questions that came like raindrops.
They entered Maya's room with shy smiles, clutching small gifts wrapped in paper that shimmered faintly in the light. The air smelled of chocolate, perfume, and the faint sweetness of childhood.
But Maya didn't react.
She sat quietly, hands folded in her lap. Her gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the window.
Nahi placed a bouquet on the table — soft pink lilies.
Nova tried a joke, light and foolish.
No answer.
Only the steady rise and fall of Maya's chest.
The silence stretched until it hurt.
And then Raya — little, fearless Raya — tugged at Maya's shawl. Her fingers were small, her touch innocent.
"I want to see a fairy," she said softly.
The words hung in the air like sunlight through dust.
Mahi blinked. Nahi smiled nervously. Nova rolled his eyes. But Maya—
Maya blinked once. Slowly.
The silence shifted.
"What does a fairy look like?" she asked, her voice fragile, like a candle whispering against wind.
Raya tilted her head, thinking deeply, then smiled.
"Like you."
The room stilled. Even the curtains froze mid-breath.
And then Raya laughed, a bright little sound that broke the shadow for a moment.
That night, they celebrated Raya's birthday.
Balloons in the garden. Pink dresses. Laughter echoing across marble floors. The chandeliers glimmered with candlelight, and music floated from the piano room — soft, hesitant tunes. But Raya wasn't interested in cake or candles.
She followed Maya everywhere, tugging her sleeve.
"I still haven't seen my fairy."
Maya said nothing.
She smiled — almost — but the smile didn't reach her eyes.
Later, when the moon rose high and the stars spilled silver dust across the garden, Maya stood.
She didn't say a word. She simply looked at Raya.
"Come," she whispered.
Just one word.
But it carried the power of oceans.
Raya's eyes widened. She ran to her.
Nahi and Nova followed, half out of curiosity, half out of awe.
Farhan saw them leave and trailed quietly behind. Then one by one, others followed — Mahi, Mahim, Fahim, the guards, even the servants and lingering guests.
Something in the air called them.
Something ancient.
Something beautiful.
They followed Maya through the garden. The grass was wet with dew, glistening under the moonlight. The night air smelled of jasmine and memory. Fireflies drifted lazily, like tiny souls lighting the path ahead.
She walked in silence, the hem of her black coat brushing against the ground, her hair moving like shadow silk in the breeze. Her bare feet made no sound.
Past the roses, past the marble statues, to the farthest edge of the estate — where an old canal wound through the land like a forgotten song.
The water was calm, reflecting the sky like glass.
And there, beneath the ancient mango tree, Maya stopped.
The crowd gathered behind her — hushed, reverent, breathless.
Even the crickets went quiet.
She sat on the grass, slow and graceful, and from within her coat she drew something small — a wooden flute.
Old, plain, carved with faint runes along its spine.
No one spoke.
No one dared to.
Maya lifted it to her lips.
The first note was faint. So soft it might have been the sigh of the wind.
Then another.
And another.
The melody unfurled — slow, aching, beautiful.
It wound through the air like smoke, like prayer.
Every sound seemed alive.
The trees leaned closer.
The river rippled.
The stars trembled.
And then — in the reflection of the water — a shape began to form.
At first it was just light.
Then it became motion.
Then it became her.
A girl.
Shimmering.
Glowing like moonlit glass.
Dancing upon the surface of the canal, her feet never touching the water. Her hair flowed behind her, black as midnight, crowned with a faint halo of blue fire.
And she looked —
Exactly like Maya.
Gasps rippled through the onlookers.
Mahi clasped her hands to her mouth.
Mahim's eyes widened.
Even Fahim — the man who believed in logic and science — took a step back.
The fairy moved in perfect harmony with the music.
When Maya's fingers slid along the flute, the fairy's arms rose like waves.
When Maya paused, she stilled.
When Maya's tune soared, she twirled — faster and faster — her laughter blending with the melody, like wind over a lake.
The fairy's dress shimmered with light, her eyes soft with something ancient — sorrow and joy woven together. And when she looked at Maya, it was as though two halves of one soul met again.
No one dared breathe.
For what they were witnessing was not magic.
It was memory — memory given shape and sound.
The music climbed higher, piercing the heavens. The wind rose with it, spinning around the tree, lifting leaves into the air like tiny green stars.
And for one heartbeat, the entire world seemed to pause — balanced perfectly between dream and waking.
Then — the final note.
It hung in the air, trembling, before dissolving into silence.
The fairy slowed.
Turned.
The wind exhaled.
Maya lowered the flute.
The world seemed smaller now — quieter.
And then — a sound.
A tiny clap.
Once.
Twice.
Raya, sitting cross-legged on the grass, clapped her small hands softly, eyes shining with tears. Then she crawled forward, climbed Maya's side branch, and whispered,
"You're magic."
The crowd behind them stayed silent. Even Mahi didn't move.
Mahim turned away, his face hidden in his hands.
Farhan's lips parted, but no words came out.
The servants — hardened by years of discipline — stared in awe.
Even the guards, trained not to feel, stood with their helmets off, their hearts trembling.
Maya didn't reply.
She just held Raya close, resting her chin gently atop the little girl's head.
Her eyes lifted to the sky — the endless sky, full of stars and things she couldn't name.
The shadows under her eyes caught the moonlight and shimmered faintly, like silver bruises.
Her face was calm — too calm, almost like the surface of deep water.
The wind brushed against her hair.
For a moment, it seemed to whisper her name.
Not "Maya."
Not "Rose of Death."
Something older.
Something truer.
The music had ended, but its echo lingered — not in the air, but in the hearts of everyone
It marveled.
The servants whispered that night that the wind itself bowed when she played.
That even the shadows on the walls seemed to listen.
That the girl who once carried darkness now carried the song of the stars.
And then — a voice.
Soft. Inside her mind.
The same voice that had once belonged to the fairy.
"You're not broken, Maya."
"You're only becoming."
And for the first time, she whispered into the wind,
"I know."
The trees swayed. The stars blinked.
And somewhere deep within her, the fragments of her power — once scattered, once feared — began to hum again, like strings of a forgotten harp tuning itself.
The girl who had been broken was learning how to breathe again.
The girl who had been silenced was learning how to sing.
And the girl who played the wind —
was no longer just Maya.
She was everything the darkness had tried to destroy.
And everything the light had promised to protect.