In the quiet colony where Noorie and Arunav lived, a little girl named Jiya had begun to weave herself into their daily lives. Drawn by the haunting purity of Noorie's singing, she often peeked over the garden fence, pigtails bouncing with every movement, eyes wide with curiosity and mischief. One afternoon, she wandered fully into the garden, mimicking Noorie's song while flapping her arms like a pigeon. Noorie laughed, the sound spilling freely for the first time that week, warm and untethered. That was how it began.
Jiya became part of Noorie's every day—clumsily helping her plant sunflowers, attempting to braid her hair, standing beside her during vocal practices, insisting she was the "manager" of her songs. In the little girl, Noorie found the giggle of a sibling she had never known, the chaos of a daughter she had never held, and a fragment of the family life her heart had quietly longed for.
Yet despite the concerts, the applause, and articles calling her the "voice of the nation," Noorie felt incomplete. Fame could illuminate her name, but it could never fill the hollow behind her ribs. Some nights, after performances, she would perch on the kitchen counter while Arunav brewed chamomile tea, and silently, tears would spill down her cheeks. "I don't want fans. I want a family," she whispered into his chest. Arunav, ever her fortress, held her without words. But he felt the sting of her longing, too. He had given her love—but he knew he could not give her roots. So, one morning, he made a silent vow: he would find them.
Arunav returned to the church where Sister Catherine welcomed him with warmth. When he asked about Noorie's origins, her face grew grave. "We found her near a well," she said softly. "She was wrapped in cloth… barely breathing. Likely abandoned near the city's general hospital. That's all we knew." Arunav thanked her and immediately requested the delivery records from that night.
An old nurse with tired eyes helped him sift through them. Only one case stood out—a baby girl marked as stillborn, with no cause documented and no name registered. Arunav's instincts screamed that this was Noorie.
He pressed further, tracing the doctor and nurse on duty that night. Finally, after subtle questioning and quiet insistence, the truth emerged. "It was staged," the nurse whispered, voice trembling. "The child… she was alive. Dark-skinned. The grandmother paid us off, said the baby was a disgrace." Arunav's fists clenched as rage and sorrow mingled within him. The child, his Noorie, belonged to the Roy Choudhury family—one of the wealthiest diamond merchant families in the city. Her mother, Suhana, had been unaware of her daughter's survival. The matriarch, Rajmohini, had orchestrated the deception, worshipping fairness above compassion, even above God.
On Noorie's birthday, Arunav didn't plan a candlelit dinner or a hilltop picnic. Instead, he drove her to the Roy Choudhury estate. As they approached the grand mansion, Noorie's curiosity grew with every step. Arunav guided her forward gently. "This is your mother," he said. Suhana rushed out, hands trembling, her eyes wide with disbelief. Arunav stepped aside.
Noorie's world spun as her mother stumbled forward, lips quivering, before collapsing into her arms. Suhana sobbed as though years of grief and loss were pouring out in a single moment. "They told me you were dead," she whispered, voice fragile like glass. "I held nothing but silence in my arms that night… and I've been holding it ever since. I lost your father too—he died of heartbreak. I watched other mothers braid their daughters' hair, laugh, celebrate birthdays… and I smiled while dying inside. But God… God has returned you to me. I will never let you go again."
Noorie felt herself undone, tears streaming freely as two broken hearts found completion in a single embrace. The Roy Choudhury family welcomed her with remorse and warmth. Her uncle and aunt offered apologies for their complicity, while her younger cousins bombarded her with curiosity and affection, trying to reclaim years lost. They held a week-long celebration in her honor, even insisting on a symbolic re-marriage with Arunav to mark her rebirth into the family. The house reverberated with laughter, music, and new beginnings.
Noorie looked at herself in the mirror, dressed in a red saree, and for the first time truly saw herself—not a star, not a survivor—but a daughter.
Yet Arunav's smile was not as easy. Beneath his polite greetings and careful jokes, something tugged at his chest. Noorie noticed it—the way his gaze lingered, the way his smiles faded quicker than usual. When she asked, he only said, "I'm just… tired." But deep inside, Arunav knew the truth: he had found Noorie her home, but the very act of giving her roots had planted a seed of fear—fear that he might lose her, not to fate, not to death, but to the world she had always belonged to.
And as the sun dipped below the estate, casting long shadows across the mansion, Noorie had no idea that the journey of finding family was only the beginning—and that some parts of her past were far darker than even Arunav could foresee.