Bhoomi knelt slowly, her aging knees protesting as she began to gather the broken decorations from the floor. A torn ribbon, a crushed paper star, fragments of what should have been laughter and celebration lay scattered around her. Her hands trembled as she picked them up, one by one, as though by fixing them she could mend what had shattered between father and son.
Her lips quivered. "They are the same blood," she murmured through tears. "So alike… and yet standing on opposite sides." Her voice cracked. "If only they could understand each other… just once."
The weight of her sorrow filled the room, thick and suffocating.
Khushi stood a few steps away, silent, watching Bhoomi's shoulders shake as she tried—and failed—to stay composed. Something tugged painfully at Khushi's heart. The grief felt familiar, intimate, as though she had lived this ache before without remembering when.
She moved closer, her voice gentle, hesitant. "Aunty…" she began, then paused, choosing her words carefully. "May I… may I meet Kiaan? Just for a moment?"
Bhoomi looked up, startled. Her tear-filled eyes studied Khushi's face, searching for something—intention, truth, reassurance. After a long pause, she nodded slowly. "He's upstairs," she said softly. "In his room."
Susheela stepped forward, pointing down the corridor. "Second door on the left," she added kindly.
Khushi folded her hands briefly in gratitude, her heart pounding as though she were about to cross an invisible threshold. Without another word, she turned and began to climb the stairs.
Each step felt heavier than the last.
Upstairs, somewhere behind a closed door, a hurt little boy waited—angry, confused, and alone.
And Khushi was walking toward him, unaware that this meeting would change far more than either of them could imagine.
Khushi stopped outside the door, her hand lifting hesitantly before knocking. Not too loud. Not too soft. Just enough.
"Mr. Kiaan," she said lightly, her voice carrying a playful warmth through the wood. "May I come in?"
Inside the room, Kiaan stood very still.
He was facing the photograph on the wall—Kiara's smiling face framed with flowers that were no longer fresh. His small hands were clenched at his sides, his shoulders stiff, as if he were holding himself together by sheer will.
At the sound of her voice, he turned.
For a second, his breath caught.
Mumma's angel.
That was the first thought that bloomed in his mind, sudden and sure. The same feeling he had felt at school, the same quiet pull in his chest. As if someone invisible had answered him after all.
Khushi pushed the door open gently and stepped inside. The room smelled faintly of books and crayons, childhood and loneliness mixed together. She glanced around, then back at him, her brows knitting softly.
She smiled, trying to keep the moment light, trying not to step on something fragile.
"What is this?" she said, spreading her hands a little, half teasing, half confused. "I came all the way to attend your birthday party… and there's no party at all."
Kiaan didn't answer immediately.
He just kept looking at her, eyes searching her face as if trying to match it with something written deep inside his heart.
The room felt very quiet.
Almost as if Kiara herself was listening.
Khushi lowered herself slowly in front of him, the fabric of her dupatta settling softly around her knees. She didn't rush him. She never did. Her eyes stayed level with his, patient, open, inviting.
"Tell me," she said gently, her voice barely louder than a breath. "What is troubling you, dear?"
Kiaan swallowed. His gaze drifted away for a moment, back to the photograph on the wall, then returned to her face. His voice came out small, but firm, as if the words had been waiting inside him for a long time.
"Angel aunty… I don't want to celebrate my birthday."
Khushi's expression softened instantly. Something in her chest tightened. "Why not?" she asked quietly.
He hesitated, fingers twisting into the hem of his shirt. Then the words spilled out, heavy and raw.
"My papa always thinks I am lying. He never believes me. Never."
Khushi tilted her head slightly, concern settling into her eyes. "What really happened?" she asked, carefully, as though stepping onto thin ice.
Kiaan's jaw clenched. The hurt in him sharpened into something darker. "Papa's fiancée… she pretends to like me in front of everyone," he said, his voice dropping. "She smiles, she acts sweet. But when no one is looking, she threatens me. She tries to hurt me."
He looked straight at Khushi now, eyes burning with certainty far beyond his years.
"She's a pishachini."
For a fleeting second, Khushi blinked. Then a faint smile touched her lips, not mocking, not dismissive, but gentle and indulgent. In her mind, it sounded like a child's fear wearing the costume of imagination. A lonely boy giving shape to his pain.
She reached out and brushed a loose curl away from his forehead. "So that is why," she said softly, understanding forming in her voice, "you don't want your birthday party."
Kiaan nodded, once, slowly.
The room grew quiet again. Outside, the house breathed. Inside, a child's truth hung in the air, half-believed, half-unseen.
To be continued…