The wind had stilled.
The night held its breath.
And yet, the music lingered.
Like a dream that refused to dissolve.
Like a memory that clung to the skin of the world.
The echo of Maya's flute still shimmered in the air, thin and trembling — a silver thread stretched between what was real and what was not. The canal rippled softly under the moonlight, carrying fragments of melody away into the sleeping trees.
From behind the marble pillars of the mansion, they watched.
All of them.
Hidden, breathless, spellbound.
The guards at the east wing leaned forward, their armor reflecting the pale gleam of the moon. The maids pressed against the garden doors, peering through the narrow slits, too afraid to blink.
Upstairs, Mahim stood frozen mid-motion — one hand still clutching a half-raised glass, the liquid inside trembling. Beside him, Mahi gripped his arm tightly, her eyes wet but unblinking.
On the balcony above, Fahim and Fahad stood together, silent as shadows. Farhan was just behind the youngest cousins, his jaw clenched, his pulse a storm. Even Anik's mother — always proud, always distant — stood by the corner window, her usual composure shattered into wonder.
And Anik himself—
He stood apart, just at the edge of the garden light. His eyes fixed on her.
Not with desire.
Not even with fear.
But with awe — a quiet, wordless awe, like a man seeing the dawn after a thousand years of night.
No one spoke.
No one dared move.
Because what they saw no longer belonged to the world of flesh and blood.
The fairy — born from the marriage of moonlight and flute-song — still danced above the water.
She moved like liquid wind.
Like grief made beautiful.
Like a forgotten prayer finding its voice again.
And at the edge of the canal, Maya sat.
Still.
Silent.
Her face unreadable.
Her hands resting lightly on her knees.
There was no pride in her eyes. No wonder. No softness.
She looked neither alive nor dead — only eternal.
And yet, the fairy came to her.
Slowly.
Tenderly.
Like a reflection walking out of a mirror.
She drifted across the water, her bare feet leaving ripples of light. Her arms spread open — not to embrace, but to reach. To remember.
And Maya — she rose.
No hesitation.
No fear.
Her body moved with the quiet certainty of something ancient, something that had been waiting all along for this moment to return.
The fairy stopped before her, hovering just above the surface.
Her light wrapped around Maya like breath — not touching, but surrounding.
And then she extended her hand.
Fingers pale as glass, trembling like mist.
Maya did not reach back.
She simply lifted her gaze.
For a heartbeat — they were mirrors.
The same eyes.
The same face.
The same wound that the world could never name.
The crowd stirred. Children gasped.
Mahi took a step forward, whispering Maya's name, but Mahim caught her wrist — his voice trembling.
"Don't," he said. "Let her be."
And so they watched.
The fairy floated backward, beckoning. The air shimmered between them.
Maya stepped forward.
Barefoot.
Unflinching.
When her foot touched the canal — the water did not swallow her.
It parted.
It bent around her, gentle and reverent, like silk yielding to the hand that wove it.
The ripples formed perfect circles at her feet, glowing faintly as though remembering the music that had called them to life.
And then — slowly, her black shawl began to fade.
The fabric loosened. Unwound. Became strands of shadow that lifted like feathers, dissolving into the night air.
Her long black dress melted into silver mist — and from that mist, a new fabric formed, seamless, ethereal.
A dress of light and darkness intertwined — woven from the water's own memory.
It moved as she breathed. It glimmered as though alive, rippling with every slow motion of her hands.
And her hair — once pinned and heavy — began to lift in the air, curling softly, each strand glistening like ink dipped in starlight.
The fairy circled her once. Then again.
With every pass, a line of light traced across the air — glowing runes, symbols older than speech.
Then — she stopped.
Paused before Maya.
The two figures stood face to face.
The living and the reflection.
The wound and the water.
The silence and the song.
And then — the fairy smiled.
No sound. No words.
Only a look of understanding.
A promise passed between them — wordless, weightless.
Smiled.Then, the fairy began to fade.
And with a gentle bow, she dissolved into silver mist — fading into the night sky like a wish returning home.
Her outline shimmered, then scattered like petals in wind.
And as she vanished, a faint whisper echoed across the canal —
a whisper that only Maya could hear.
"You are not the darkness, child. You are what it remembered to save."
And then she was gone.
The water dimmed.
The ripples stilled.
And Maya stood alone.
Her reflection flickered, then steadied — but it was no longer just hers.
The fairy's face lingered faintly beneath her own, like a ghost pressed beneath glass.
She turned slowly.
Her eyes found the shadows beyond the garden.
She knew they were watching.
All of them.
But she didn't call them out.
She didn't speak to them.
Didn't ask for comfort.
Because Maya — the girl who had lived through death — no longer sought to be touched.
She had learned that even kindness could wound.
That even love could burn.
That distance was the only mercy left that did not leave scars.
Her gaze passed over the crowd — over Fahim's trembling hands, Mahi's tears, Mahim's stillness, the cousins' frightened awe.
She saw them all.
But she let none of them see her heart.
Until her eyes found one — the smallest.
Raya.
Still sitting at the garden's edge, small hands clutching the hem of her dress, her little feet tucked under her.
Her face was tilted upward, eyes wide, shining like the first stars of evening.
Maya looked at her for a long time.
Then — she tilted her head slightly, her voice soft, carried by the quiet.
"Did you see the fairy?"
Raya nodded, her curls bouncing.
Her voice was full of certainty, the kind only a child's heart could hold.
"I told you they were real."
Maya's lips curved faintly. Not a smile. Something sadder.
Her fingers twitched — but she stopped herself.
She looked down at her palms instead.
They were still glowing faintly, silver light pulsing under her skin, as though the water had left its breath inside her veins.
She turned them over once.
Then looked back at Raya.
"So did I," she whispered.
The canal rippled. Once.
Then stilled.
Behind her, the family began to move again — slowly, cautiously. But when Mahi took a step forward, Maya's voice came, soft but sharp enough to still the air.
"Don't."
It wasn't anger.
It wasn't fear.
It was distance.
A line drawn between what once was love and what had now become silence.
Mahi froze. Her lips trembled, but she didn't speak.
Maya turned her gaze back to the water.
The moon's reflection shimmered across her feet. The faint outline of the fairy appeared once more in the ripples — only for an instant — then melted away.
Maya's voice floated into the night, soft for most to hear.
But those who did, would never forget it.
"The water remembers what the world forgets."
And perhaps she was right.
They said later that it sang.
That if you listened closely, you could still hear the faint hum of a flute beneath the wind.
That sometimes, when the moon was high, the water rippled on its won.
And though the others wispard, one person stayed awake — Anik.
From the balcony above, he watched her — this girl of shadow and storm, this untouchable flame.
He didn't dare go near.
He didn't dare speak.
He only whispered her name once into the dark — not to call her, but to remember her.
"Maya…"
The word drifted down like a feather, touched the water, and disappeared.
And the water — the water remembered.
Maya's bare feet brushing against the wet grass.