Anaya talked the whole walk home. About school, about how the Hindi teacher hated her handwriting, about how lemon rice tasted better on cloudy days. She filled the air with sound the way some people used umbrellas when it wasn't raining—just in case.
But Tejas noticed something he had somehow missed, something so obvious he felt stupid for not seeing it before.
Anaya never talked about her parents.
Not a single story.
Not a single complaint.
Not a single "my mom said this" or "my dad does that."
Not even a single photograph ever peeking out of her notebook.
For someone who talked as much as she breathed, her silence on that topic was loud.
The thought grew heavier as they walked down the narrow lane leading to her house. And before they even reached the gate, Tejas already knew what he would see.
Darkness.
No porch light.
No open window.
No silhouettes.
No noise.
Just a stillness that made the entire building feel abandoned.
Anaya didn't stop this time. She walked up to the gate like it was normal, like a dark and silent house was the most natural thing in the world.
"Alright, lieutenant. See you tomorrow!" she said, forcing cheer into her voice.
Tejas stepped into her path. Not blocking, not aggressive—just close enough to make her pause.
"Anaya," he said quietly.
She looked up, smile faltering for a moment.
He didn't want to push. But he also couldn't pretend anymore.
"You're alone, aren't you?"
Her breath hitched—so quick he almost missed it. She swallowed and laughed, a tiny crack in the sound.
"Don't say things like that," she said lightly. "You'll make me cry. And I'm allergic to crying."
Tejas didn't laugh.
"You didn't call your parents yesterday. And today… the house looks the same."
"It's energy-saving mode," she insisted.
"Anaya."
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. For the first time since he'd known her, her hands fidgeted instead of her words.
He softened his tone. "I'm not judging you. I just… want to understand."
Her eyes flickered toward the door, toward the shadows inside, toward something she did not want him to see.
Then she whispered—not desperate, not weak, but steady, like someone giving herself a command:
"Courage, Anaya."
The words barely carried, but Tejas heard them.
She exhaled slowly and forced a smile back into place.
"I'm fine," she said. "That's all you need to know today."
"Today?" he repeated. "So you'll tell me?"
"Maybe. When I grow three extra hearts and a bigger spine."
She reached for the gate.
He didn't stop her this time.
She pushed it open, walked inside, and closed the door gently. Not hurriedly, not nervously—carefully. Like she was closing something fragile inside.
No light came on.
No voice greeted her.
No footsteps followed.
Tejas stood outside longer than he meant to, listening for any sign of life inside. But there was none. Only the faint echo of the word she'd whispered—
Courage.
He walked home slowly, each step sinking under the weight of a worry he hadn't felt before.
---
The next day at school, Anaya arrived with her usual dramatic flair—hair slightly messy, glasses crooked, smile too bright.
"Guess who found twenty rupees inside an old notebook?" she announced. "Me! That's the universe rewarding me for existing."
Tejas watched her.
She avoided his eyes for the first few minutes. Then, during science class, she nudged him with her elbow.
"You're mad?" she whispered.
"No."
"Worried?"
He didn't answer.
She sighed dramatically and dropped her head onto her desk. "Why are boys always like this? Serious faces, heavy breaths, staring into the horizon like tragic heroes."
He cracked a smile despite himself.
But the worry didn't leave.
During lunch, she pulled out a pack of stale biscuits. The same kind. The same crumpled wrapper.
"Where's your tiffin?" he asked.
"Oh, you know, my mom is experimenting with… intermittent fasting. For me. Very modern stuff."
He didn't call her out.
But his stomach tightened.
Anaya noticed but again hid behind theatrics, talking louder, faster, filling silence before it became a question.
After school, she didn't wait for him to walk her home. She waved, ran ahead, and acted as if the whole day had been an ordinary slice of childhood.
But when she reached her lane, she slowed—just enough for him to catch up.
"You followed me again," she said, not annoyed, not amused—somewhere in between.
"You walk too fast," he replied.
"Or you worry too much."
"Maybe both."
She looked at him then, properly looked.
Her eyes softened for a moment.
"I'm not ready," she whispered. "But… thank you."
Then she turned and hurried inside the dark house.
Tejas didn't linger as long this time.
But the unease stayed with him like a shadow attached at the ribs.
---
Across the city, Devraj stepped onto the newly rebuilt apartment block where the old incident had supposedly happened a decade ago. The officer who had provided the logs followed nervously behind him.
"This whole place was demolished five years ago," the officer said. "New building. New tenants. Nothing from the old world remains."
Devraj ran his hand along a freshly painted wall. Smooth. Clean.
No burn marks.
No metal distortion.
No trace of the fire that had once consumed the place.
"Perfect timing, wasn't it?" Devraj murmured. "A building collapses under mysterious circumstances, and then a few years later—brand new construction. Convenient."
The officer swallowed. "Construction cycles are standard, sir."
"Not when half the logs from that night were tampered with," Devraj said. "Not when timestamps contradict each other. Not when an entire six-minute window was overwritten."
He crouched to inspect the floor tiles near the staircase. New. Polished. Absolutely useless for clues.
"Someone cleaned this site," he said. "And then someone rebuilt it."
"That's a common redevelopment process—"
Devraj cut him with a stare.
"Do you think I'm an idiot?"
The officer shut his mouth instantly.
Devraj stood and dusted his hands.
"I don't know what happened here that night," he said quietly. "But whatever it was… someone didn't want the truth left behind."
He turned away from the spotless corridor with a quiet, simmering frustration.
He was still convinced the hybrid child died here.
Still convinced the Ember woman perished here.
Still convinced Dhruv had fallen here.
His mind was locked on this location—
and only this location.
So when his phone buzzed with the latest thermal logs showing a low-steady-low signature drifting around Green Park Colony, he barely glanced at them.
Too stable.
Too mild.
Too domestic.
Not Ember.
Not hybrid.
Not a threat.
He dismissed it with a swipe.
"Worthless," he muttered.
And continued his investigation in the completely wrong place.
---
Back in Green Park Colony, Tejas lay on his bed staring at the ceiling fan. The blade shadows circled slowly, like thoughts that didn't know where to land.
Anaya had never mentioned her parents.
She never took tiffin.
She never turned on the lights.
She never talked about home.
And today, when he'd asked why—
She had whispered courage to herself.
He pressed a hand against his forehead, trying to push away the unease.
Maybe she was fine.
Maybe she was struggling.
Maybe she needed time.
He didn't know.
But he knew this:
Tomorrow, he couldn't pretend not to see it anymore.
Whatever she was hiding, it wasn't something small.
And whatever she was facing… she was facing alone.
Tejas closed his eyes.
Maybe it was time someone stood with her.