Hinata was five.
At that age, she didn't know how to count days, only moments. And every moment of her life had always looked the same.
She woke up when she wanted to.
She ate when she was hungry.
She slept without fear.
Because her grandmother was always there.
That morning, the house was still quiet when her grandmother opened her eyes. She lay still for a moment, listening to the small, steady breathing beside her. Hinata was asleep, her tiny hands curled near her face, her body warm against the thin cot.
Grandma smiled.
Slowly, carefully, she lifted the blanket and slid out of bed, making sure the wood didn't creak. She moved as if the air itself might wake the child.
"Sleep a little longer," she whispered.
She washed her face, tied her hair back, and stepped into the kitchen. The knife met the cutting board softly—vegetables washed, peeled, sliced with patience. The stove warmed the room, and the smell of food slowly filled the house.
Behind her, bare feet touched the floor.
Grandma didn't turn.
Hinata always came this way.
The child stood there, half-asleep, then walked straight toward her and pressed her face against her waist. Without a word, Grandma shifted, making space. Hinata climbed into her lap as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Good morning, my sunshine," Grandma said.
Hinata didn't answer. She reached for the vegetables instead.
Grandma laughed quietly. "Those are not toys."
Hinata ignored her.
They played like that—pretending, rolling vegetables across the counter, laughing in whispers as if the morning itself was listening.
Later, Grandma led her to the sink.
"Open your mouth," she said softly.
Hinata obeyed, blinking as the toothbrush moved carefully. Then came the bath—warm water, gentle hands, soap wiped away before it could touch her eyes.
"I won't let it hurt," Grandma promised.
Hinata believed her.
Wrapped in clean clothes, Hinata looked up with shining eyes.
"Grandma," she asked, "today we go out?"
Grandma smiled, brushing her hair back."Yes, my princess. We will."
Hinata smiled, bright and small, like the sun learning how to be gentle.
She thought life was always like this.
She didn't know it could end without ending.
The day she was taken away, there was no warning.
Her parents arrived. Voices filled the house—adult voices, serious voices. Words Hinata didn't understand floated over her head.
"She'll come with us now."
Hinata clutched her grandmother's sari.
"Grandma?" she whispered.
Her grandmother knelt down, holding her face, trying to smile even though her eyes were wet.
"It's only for a while," she said. "Be good. I'll see you again."
Hinata nodded, because Grandma said so.
She didn't know how long "a while" could be.
The new house was different.
Here, she couldn't move freely.
Here, asking questions felt dangerous.
At her grandmother's house, she could say, I'll come back after playing, and no one raised their voice.
Here, she said it once.
"I'll come after playing."
Her father's face hardened.
"Study first."
She didn't understand. She was still a child. She thought rules were the same everywhere.
She went to play.
When she returned, food was ready.
"Come eat," he said.
She stepped inside.
The slap came without warning.
Before she could cry, the stick followed. She ran. He dragged her across the house, anger louder than her screams. Her body burned, her head rang, and all she could think was—
Grandma never hurt me.
Her mother stopped him. Her grandparents watched.
No one held her.
No one told her it was okay.
The warmth was gone.
The freedom was gone.
The little girl who believed life was gentle disappeared that day.
And from then on, Hinata learned something new:
Life was not one moment at a time anymore.It was something to survive.