"You've ruined your parents' name. Again."

The words hit like a brick. Diya stood frozen in the corridor, her breath short and hands clammy. The hallway looked the same as it always had, dim yellow lights overhead, dusty blue notice boards along the walls, and echoes of hurried footsteps that never quite reached her.

Her class teacher's eyes were wild with accusation. Disgust, even.

"I'm tired of repeating myself. You've bunked again, haven't you? Just like last time. You girls think this is a party?"

Diya's mouth parted slightly, her voice caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat. She hadn't bunked. She hadn't. She was just... there. A birthday wish, one minute, then back to class. That was the plan.

She shifted her weight from one foot to another, heart pounding. "Ma'am, I wasn't-"

"Shut up! Enough of your lies. You've done this before too. Don't think I've forgotten."

The noise around her dimmed. Her surroundings blurred until only the teacher's voice remained, sharper, louder, drowning everything else.

The worst part? She knew what would come next. Not because she expected it, but because it had happened before. A similar mistake. A similar accusation. A similar silence when she'd tried to explain.

"Let me call your parents," the teacher snapped.

No. Not again.

Diya took a half-step forward. Her fingers trembled as they tightened around the strap of her bag."Please, Ma'am, I wasn't bunking. I was just-"

"Stop! Enough. You've brought shame to your parents once again. Do they even know the kind of daughter they've raised?"

Diya's knees wobbled.

"Last time I gave you a warning. This time... this time I'm calling them right now."

The teacher's phone was already in hand.

"Hello, Mr. Sharma? Yes, I'm calling about your daughter. She's bunked again today. I'm very worried... yes. Yes. I understand."

Diya's pulse spiked. She blinked hard.

The corridor shifted. Her feet felt glued to the floor. Her mouth went dry. She tasted copper. Her stomach curled into itself.

She looked down.

Blood.

It crept slowly, a dark crimson bloom on the floor. From her wrist? Her arm? Her hands? She didn't know. Or maybe she did.

A loud thud echoed.

She gasped.

Her eyes flew open.

I woke up gasping.

I sat bolt upright in bed, breath ragged and sheets tangled around my legs. The room was dimly lit, early sunlight bleeding in through white curtains. My cheeks were wet. I touched them slowly, as if afraid of confirming what I already knew.

Tears.

I'd cried in my sleep. Again.

A chill ran down my arms despite the warmth of the room. I pressed the heel of my palm to my forehead and let out a breath. My chest felt tight, like I'd been holding something in for too long.

The dream clung to me like a second skin. My breathing, though steadier now, still came in sharp pulls. The silence of the morning was deafening.

Another Nightmare. The same one. Again.

It wasn't just a dream. That moment... it had happened. Not word for word. Not exactly like that. But the shame? The helplessness? The sting of not being believed? That was all real.

And it had followed me for years.

🪔

By the time I stood under the hot stream of the shower, I'd shoved the dream back into the locked vault of my mind. The water hit my skin like fire, comforting, punishing. A reminder that I was here, not there.

I moved through my morning routine mechanically, clinging to each step like a lifeline. Body wash. Shampoo. Conditioner. Rinse. Dry. Moisturiser. Clothes.

Clothes.

My eyes scanned the wardrobe quickly. Nothing loud. Nothing overly bright. I reached for a pale blue button-down shirt, clean, pressed, plain. I tucked it neatly into high-waisted black trousers that gave me a sense of structure. I added a slim black belt, then slipped into my black pumps, the safe choice that never betrayed me.

My ID card dangled from my waistband. I double-checked it, more out of habit than necessity.

In the mirror, I looked... composed. A bit of lip balm brought some life back to my face. My wavy hair was left open, falling loosely around my shoulders. I didn't smile. There was nothing to smile about.

I picked up my chestnut brown tote bag which is roomy enough to carry my world and then I walked out.

Downstairs, the familiar hum of home greeted me. Maa was in the kitchen, humming that old Kishore Kumar tune she always did when she was in a good mood. Papa was at the dining table, newspaper in hand, glasses halfway down his nose.

Then it hit me. Aloo parathas. The smell hit like a gut punch. I stalled for half a second in the hallway. My stomach lurched. Not today.

Not when I still felt like a piece of that dream was clinging to my spine. I walked straight to the fridge and pulled out the orange juice.

"Good morning, beta," Maa sang. "Hungry? I made your favourite."

I didn't trust myself to speak immediately. I poured the juice slowly, carefully. It felt safe. Cold and sweet. Tolerable. It didn't smell like regret.

"Not too hungry," I said, voice light. "Just this."

She frowned. "But you didn't eat properly last night either. At least a bite-"

"Maa, I really can't" I cut in gently. "I'll grab something later."

Papa lowered his paper. "First day, huh? Excited?"

I shrugged, trying not to let my nerves show. "Let's see how it goes."

"Just don't skip meals. Even CEOs eat, you know."

I smiled politely and gulped down the rest of the juice.

"I'll be back by 6," I said, setting the glass in the sink. "Don't wait."

🪔

The cab was waiting outside.

I climbed in and leaned against the window. Outside, the city danced. Traffic horns. Dust. Strangers crossing lives like brushstrokes.

The move hadn't been part of the plan. My old firm had always felt stable, until it wasn't. A sudden merger, hush-hush meetings, and a wave of senior resignations later, the structure crumbled beneath us. Work slowed. Guidance vanished.

And for someone in the last leg of articleship, that silence was dangerous. I didn't have the luxury of waiting it out. I needed direction, exposure, momentum. So I didn't flinch. I applied, interviewed, shifted. It all happened in a blur.

A new firm. A new start. No time for grief, just grind. Because in this profession, if you pause too long, you don't just fall behind, you're forgotten.

The name of the company stayed sealed in my envelope. I hadn't even spoken it aloud yet. Not to anyone.

Not even to myself.

I didn't feel fear. Not really. Not excitement either.

It was something in between.

The place where you carry the past in your bloodstream and the future is a quiet question mark.

🪔

The office was tall and clean-cut, like someone had sliced a grey block into glass and perfection. I walked in, inhaled the cold scent of air conditioning and lemon scented polish. I greeted the receptionist with a small nod and signed in.

I took the elevator. It opened with a soft ding, sleek interiors, golden trim, mirrors so clean they made you doubt your own shape.

Empty.

Odd. Everyone else was crowding the other lifts just a few feet away.

I stepped in anyway, too new to know better, too distracted to care. The doors slid shut with a hush so quiet it felt... expensive.

The silence was eerie. No foot tapping. No awkward small talk. Just the hum of motion and the faintest scent of cedarwood and steel.

It felt like a place where secrets were stored in the walls.

I adjusted my bag strap, suddenly aware of how loud my own breathing was. Just then, the claw clip hooked on my strap slipped and clattered to the floor. I crouched quickly, cheeks heating even though I was alone.

Smooth move Diya.

I picked it up, too many thoughts in my head to think about anything else.

By the time the elevator opened again, the atmosphere outside was different.

Sharp.

Eyes.

Everyone, interns, executives, even the lady by the coffee machine... paused and looked up like I'd walked in naked. Brows raised. Side eyes fired like bullets.

What the hell?

I pressed my lips together and walked fast, acting like I knew exactly where I was going, even though my feet moved like traitors, announcing me louder than i wanted.

My floor was minimalist, glass cubicles and sleek wood panels. My desk stood in a far corner, clean, untouched, waiting to be claimed.

I slipped into the cubicle assigned to me, dumped my bag, and let out a breath.

No clue what just happened.

But I had a feeling... I'd just done something wrong.

I sat down, logged in, and opened the laptop.

Just then, my phone buzzed.

Tara: So??? Did they give you a diamond desk or a regular poor people desk?

I smiled.

Me: Basic af. No diamonds. Just a very enthusiastic HR.

Tara: Ew. Run. That's cult energy.

Me: If I disappear, tell Netflix to make a docuseries.

Tara: On it. Working title: She Hated Aloo Paratha and That Was Her Downfall.

A quiet chuckle left me.

For a moment, it felt like the heavy beginning of something lighter.

Just as I was responding to Tara's last message a sharp tap echoed from the cubicle wall beside mine. I glanced up.

A woman stood there, perfectly poised, like a mannequin from a luxury brand's executive collection. Nude lipstick, high heels that screamed power, and a blazer too tailored to be off the rack. Her ID card dangled like a threat from her lanyard.

"You must be the transfer," she said. Her voice was velvet dipped in frost.

I nodded slowly. "Diya. Articleship transfer from Sehgal & Co."

She gave me a once-over, the kind that made you feel like a product she wouldn't buy. "I'm Neha. Assistant Manager, Audit. I oversee this floor. Let me know if you get lost. Wouldn't want the new girl wandering off."

There was a smile. But it didn't reach her eyes.

She left without waiting for a response.

Great. I sighed.

🪔

Lunch hour rolled in sooner than expected. I was still buried in orientation emails and old audit files when my stomach reminded me I hadn't actually eaten.

The cafeteria was sleek, with long windows and conversations bouncing off marble floors.

The space was bustling, an oddly soothing rhythm of trays clinking, laughter echoing, shoes squeaking against tile. I joined the queue, eyes scanning the options.

Everything felt... off. The thought of anything greasy turned my stomach. I hovered in indecision, switching from biryani to noodles to pasta in my mind.

Eventually, I settled on a grilled paneer sandwich and a bottle of orange juice. Safe. Neutral. Digestible.

I found a seat in the far corner, next to a glass wall overlooking the city skyline. The view stretched endlessly, like the possibilities ahead of me. The glass was cool against my fingertips as I set my lunch tray down. I needed a moment to breathe, so I leaned back in my chair, letting the hum of the cafeteria wash over me.

The sandwich was more substantial than I had expected, yet still too dry. I chewed slowly, my thoughts drifting like the passing clouds outside the window. The orange juice felt too sweet, too sour on my tongue. It wasn't that I was starving, it was something deeper, a sensation of emptiness that gnawed at me since I walked through those office doors this morning.

It wasn't just the new environment or the intimidating Assistant Manager from earlier. It was the weight of change settling into my bones.

I pushed the sandwich aside, swallowing a sigh. I didn't have time to feel this way. I was here to do a job, to prove myself. The first day always felt like a test, like you were walking on a tightrope, trying not to tip over into unfamiliarity or failure.

By the time I finished my juice, the bustling sounds of the cafeteria began to fade into the background. People moved around, talking, laughing, but none of it really reached me. It was like I was wrapped in a bubble of my own thoughts.

After lunch, the afternoon sped by in a blur of meetings and paperwork. Neha wasn't the only one who seemed to look me over with detached interest. The entire office felt like an unspoken competition, where smiles were only given out when necessary and only for the right reasons. My new colleagues were cordial but distant, like we were all waiting for the moment when we could finally stop pretending to be friendly.

The hours seemed to stretch and bend as I sifted through audit files that felt far too heavy for a first day task. I forced myself to concentrate, to immerse myself in the work. But as the clock ticked closer to five, I realized just how mentally drained I had become.

It was a relief when I finally gathered my things and stepped out of the office, the cool evening air hitting me like a slap in the face. I just wanted to go home, to be surrounded by familiar faces and the comfort of routine.

🪔

When I stepped inside, the first thing I heard was my little sister's voice floating from the kitchen, an animated chatter to match the clatter of utensils. "Maa, you won't believe what happened today!" she was saying.

I smiled softly, kicking off my shoes. I peeked into the kitchen and saw my little sister, Ananya, sitting at the table with a bowl of dal and rice, talking animatedly to our mother, who was busy stirring something on the stove.

Home smelled like warmth. Masoor dal, incense, the comfort of routine.

Maa looked up from the kitchen. "Back already?"

"Brain fried," I muttered.

She smiled. "Dal chawal okay?"

"Perfect."

Dad was in the living room, flipping through a book.

"Hi, Di!" Ananya called out with a grin. "How was your first day?"

I waved and smiled lightly, but my heart wasn't in it. "It was good." I said not wanting to explain things and made my way toward the living room, where Dad was sitting.

He looked up with a smile, giving me a quick once-over. "How was it, kiddo?" he asked, putting his book down.

"Long day, but okay. Just... a lot to take in, you know?" I sank onto the couch, and Dad nodded in understanding.

"I bet. You'll settle in. You always do," he said, his tone easy, reassuring.

With that, we all settled into the usual evening rhythm. Ananya went back to her college work, Dad continued his evening reading, and I just sat there, catching up on small talk. My brother must be in his room, studying for upcoming examinations. The usual noises of home felt comforting, like a soft blanket after a long, tiring day.

I climbed the stairs to my room, toes aching, body sagging.

Tossed my bag somewhere in the room. Without thinking i tugged a soft kurta from the hanger and darted to the washroom.

After a long shower to wash away the day, I walked into my room, closing the door behind me with a soft click. I sank onto my bed, the exhaustion of the day still weighing on me. My room was a safe space, where nothing had changed. Everything was still the same.

As I reached up to touch my neck, I froze. My fingers met bare skin. No clasp. No pendant. No diya.

I dropped to my knees, ripping through the contents of my bag like a maniac.

The chain was gone.

My chest caved in. The air felt like sandpaper. That diya... it wasn't just gold. It was her. My nani. Her last gift. Her last touch. Her blessing.

My neck felt unnaturally light, the absence of the pendant suffocating in its silence.

I stood up quickly, heart thumping in my chest, a cold sweat breaking out across my skin. I felt around my room, my hands trembling as I searched the desk, the floor, under the bed, anywhere that the pendant might've fallen. My breath came faster, panic slowly creeping into the pit of my stomach.

It couldn't be gone. It couldn't.

That pendant wasn't just jewelry, it was my connection to her. To nani. The woman who had raised me when everything felt too dark, who had whispered stories in my ear and held me when I cried.

It had been with me through every high and low, every transition, every loss. Nani's pendant had always been my reminder that I was loved, that I wasn't alone, even when everything around me was falling apart.

Tears pricked the corners of my eyes.

I sat on my bed defeated, the world feeling suddenly unbearably vast. I tried to hold it together, to remind myself that it was just a thing, just an object.

But the thought of losing it, of losing that piece of her... it was too much.

I pressed my face into the pillow and broke. The kind of crying that doesn’t make a sound, just shakes your whole body. That gold chain had gotten me through nights I didn’t think I’d survive. Just holding it made things hurt less.

And now it’s gone.

I don’t know what to hold on to anymore. What keeps me steady when the only thing that ever did… isn’t here?

How could I be so careless? How could I let it slip away?

At some point, the tears stopped, not because the pain did, but because my eyes gave up before I did. Sleep took me the way grief always does, sudden, heavy, and without mercy.

The day began with tears I didn’t remember crying, and ended with tears I didn’t realise had dried… that pretty much sums up my life.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

Smash the ⭐️ if you liked the chapter & follow for more twists 👀

What are your expectations from this story? drop your thoughts, fav lines, or wild theories in the comments 🎀

I would love know your opinion about my book 👀💬

Follow me on instagram for book aesthetics and spicy spoilers ✨

ig : authorem_

Thankyou for reading.

- M 💌