⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟒𝟓˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆
It was nearing midnight.
The entire mansion lay silent — except for the rhythmic beep coming from one room.
Vidyut stood at the doorway, staring at the two figures lying inside.
Ritvika — motionless, lost somewhere between life and sleep.
Tara — curled up beside her own small pillow, her little chest rising and falling peacefully.
He stepped in quietly, his footsteps soft against the marble. In one hand, he held a box filled with balloons, ribbons, and tiny lights. It was strange — he had never done this before. Not for anyone. And yet, tonight, he felt like he had to.
He didn't even know what she liked. Pink? White? Roses? He had no idea. He just... picked what felt right.
One by one, he began hanging the balloons near the curtains. His movements were clumsy, uncertain. A few ribbons fell twice before sticking properly. But he didn't stop. He kept going — as if every piece of decoration was an apology he couldn't say aloud.
His eyes flickered toward her still face.
"You know, I don't even know what kind of birthdays you liked," he whispered, voice low and hoarse. "You never told me. Maybe I never asked."
He gave a soft, broken laugh. "I was always too busy being angry, wasn't I?"
The fairy lights glowed faintly now, illuminating her face. He walked closer and placed a small red rose beside her hand. "It's your birthday tomorrow. And hers too. Tara's," he murmured. "She doesn't even know. I don't know how I'll explain this part of life to her."
For a few seconds, he just stood there, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the faint reflection of the lights dancing across her skin.
"You're missing so much," he whispered. "She's growing up so fast... and she keeps asking for you every night." His voice broke slightly. "And I... I keep saying soon. Even though I don't know if soon will ever come."
He sat on the stool beside her bed, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands.
"I don't know what you liked, Ritvika. What made you happy, what made you laugh. But I remember the few times you smiled in front of Tara — it... it was enough. I just want that smile again."
The fairy lights flickered once, their glow soft and uneven — like a pulse fading and returning.
Vidyut lifted his head, eyes glassy, and whispered, "Happy birthday, Ritvika."
He turned to the smaller bed beside, brushed Tara's hair, and added in a broken whisper, "Happy birthday, my kitten."
The room stayed silent — only machines humming and fairy lights shimmering faintly — as Vidyut sat between the two, surrounded by balloons, ribbons, and the unbearable ache of love left unsaid.
Soft sunlight crept through the cream curtains, painting the room in gold.
The entire space shimmered with balloons, ribbons, and delicate fairy lights — all carefully placed by Vidyut the previous night.
The air carried a faint fragrance of lilies and the innocent sweetness of something new, something warm.
On the bed, Tara stirred beneath her pink blanket, rubbing her sleepy eyes. For a second, she blinked, confused by the sudden explosion of colors around her. Then realization dawned — and her lips stretched into a wide, delighted smile.
"Wow... it's so pletty!" she whispered, climbing off the bed and tiptoeing around the floor scattered with balloons.
From the doorway, Vidyut watched silently. There was an unusual calmness in his eyes — one that came only when he looked at her.
When Tara finally noticed him, she grinned, "You did all thisss?"
Vidyut simply nodded, the corner of his lips lifting. "It's your birthday today, princess."
Her eyes widened like tiny stars. "My birlay? My birthay!" she screamed, spinning around as her laughter echoed through the room.
She began kicking balloons in the air, her giggles contagious, filling the walls that had once known nothing but silence.
After a few moments, she stopped, looking up at him with innocent curiosity. "Mumma make balloons too? Mumma no wake up?"
Vidyut crouched to her level and gently brushed her hair back. "Mumma's still asleep. Let her rest a little more, okay? She'll join us soon."
Tara nodded with a soft "otay" and went back to chasing the balloons.
Just then, the doorbell rang. Vidyut frowned slightly — he wasn't expecting anyone this early. Tara, however, ran straight to the living room, her tiny feet tapping against the marble floor.
When Vidyut opened the door, his entire family stood there. Lakshay and Gaurav carried wrapped gifts, Parul held a box of sweets, and Aarush had a huge teddy bear balanced awkwardly on one shoulder. Even Hridhaan had a soft smile on his face.
"Happy Birthday, little sunshine!" Lakshay said warmly, as Tara gasped in excitement.
"Dadu!" she squealed, running straight into his arms. Then she turned, jumping one by one toward the others — "Chachu! Chhoti Dadi! Aalush Chachu!"
Each name was followed by hugs, laughter, and a flurry of giggles. The whole house seemed alive, filled with the sound of her joy.
But then — Manisha stepped forward.
Her expression was soft, hesitant. There was a tremble in her voice when she called, "Tara..."
Tara looked at her for a moment — just a moment — and then turned away.
Manisha's smile faltered. She took another step closer, but Tara shifted behind Lakshay's leg, clutching his kurta as if seeking shelter.
Vidyut noticed every second of that exchange. His eyes flicked to his mother's — calm yet cold, a warning buried deep in the silence between them.
Manisha's throat tightened. "I never wanted things to turn out this way," she said quietly, her gaze flicking between Vidyut and the child. "I didn't mean to hurt anyone. You told me once to behave, to keep peace... when Atharv wasn't around. But I failed."
The words lingered in the air like fragile glass.
Vidyut's jaw clenched, but his tone stayed even — too even. "It's Tara's birthday today. We won't talk about anything else right now."
He turned away, crouching to fix the string of a balloon that had come loose. The message was clear — forgiveness would not come easily.
Manisha nodded slowly, tears filling her eyes, but she didn't push further. She just stood there, watching Tara's small form dancing among the ribbons, her laughter ringing like wind chimes — pure, untouched, and blissfully unaware of the cracks beneath it all.
For the first time in a long while, the house felt alive — not perfect, not whole, but alive. And that was enough for now.
?_?
The house glowed with soft fairy lights, laughter echoing faintly through the hallways.
The dining table was filled with gifts, sweets, and a giant white-and-pink cake sitting proudly in the center — "Happy Birthday Tara" written in neat cursive with an extra small heart drawn beside her name.
Tara stood in front of it, her cheeks flushed with excitement, a tiny crown placed slightly crooked on her head.
Everyone had gathered around her — Lakshay with his phone ready to record, Parul clapping cheerfully, Aarush trying to make her laugh, and even Hridhaan teasing her to blow the candles fast before they melted.
But one person was missing.
For a brief second, silence wrapped around Vidyut's chest. His eyes shifted toward the room upstairs — the one filled with monitors, machines, and a heartbeat that still flickered between hope and despair.
Parul noticed. She stepped closer and whispered, "Maybe we should check on Ritvika first? She would want to be part of this, at least from there."
A faint hush fell among them. Everyone's smiles faded just a little. Even Tara looked around, confused by the sudden quiet.
"Whele Mumma? Mumma will come too?" she asked, blinking innocently.
Vidyut inhaled slowly, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "She's resting, Tara. But don't worry — Mumma can hear you from here, okay? You cut the cake for both of you."
The little girl nodded earnestly, completely believing him. "For Mumma too!" she said, her voice bright and sure.
As everyone gathered again, Manisha softly murmured, "We should at least bring the cake near her room... maybe—"
Before she could finish, Vidyut cut in, polite but firm. "No. She needs rest."
The tone silenced everyone. No one argued. They all knew — this was his way of protecting what little peace he had left.
Tara clasped her small hands together, ready to blow the candles. Vidyut bent down beside her, steadying her hands on the knife.
"On three," he said quietly. "One... two..."
"Three!" Tara shouted, her tiny face glowing as she blew out the candles. Cheers erupted around her. Parul hugged her tight, Lakshay ruffled her hair, and Aarush smeared a bit of cream on her nose, making her giggle uncontrollably.
Amid the laughter, Vidyut clapped too — but softly. His eyes, though fixed on Tara, carried a heaviness that never left.
When Tara fed him the first bite of cake, he smiled faintly and said, "Now one piece for Mumma, hmm?"
She nodded eagerly and picked up a small slice, holding it carefully between her fingers. "Mumma's cake," she whispered and looked toward the staircase, as if her mother might walk down any moment.
Everyone went still again. The innocence in her eyes burned through them more deeply than words ever could.
After a pause, Vidyut walked upstairs quietly, holding that same piece of cake. He pushed open the familiar door — the faint hum of machines greeted him.
Ritvika lay still, her face pale yet peaceful, the same quiet strength lingering around her. He placed the cake slice on the bedside table.
"You should've been there," he murmured, sitting beside her. "She looked so happy. She thinks you're just sleeping."
For a second, his voice cracked. "It's her birthday... and yours too."
He exhaled deeply, brushing his thumb over her still fingers. "Happy birthday, Ritvika."
Downstairs, faint laughter echoed again — Tara's voice, bright and alive, filling the silence of that room with a kind of bittersweet hope.
The mansion glowed softly under the fading evening light. Pink streamers hung gently across the ceiling, pastel balloons scattered around the hall, and a faint scent of roses filled the air. It wasn't grand — but it was warm, tender, and full of meaning.
Lakshay's idea, not Vidyut's. He had insisted — "For memories, beta. Even if she's not awake... she deserves this."
And maybe, deep down, Vidyut couldn't say no. Not this time.
Upstairs, in the same room that had long been painted with both silence and love, Vidyut knelt beside Tara, helping her slip into her pink frock.
Tiny pearls lined the neckline; the fabric shimmered faintly as she twirled.
He adjusted her bow, tied her shoes, and brushed her little curls neatly to one side.
She looked perfect — just like her mother.
He smiled faintly, straightening his own pink kurta — the same shade as Tara's.
He remembered the day he had bought these — one for Ritvika, one for their daughter — both smiling in his imagination, both wearing it together.
His chest ached softly as he turned toward the bed where Ritvika still lay, still as ever.
The door opened quietly behind him. Parul entered first, followed by Manisha. Their steps slowed the moment their eyes landed on Ritvika. The air changed — a quiet heaviness returning like a shadow.
Manisha's throat bobbed. She took a slow step toward the bed, her trembling fingers clutching her saree pallu. But before she could reach, Vidyut's voice stopped her — calm, yet edged with something that made her freeze.
"Please... don't," he said softly. "She's resting."
Manisha's eyes welled instantly. "Vidyut... I—"
He looked at her — not angry, not cold, but tired. Exhausted in a way that went beyond words.
"I know what you will say," he said quietly, glancing at Ritvika. "You told me to behave well with her when that man wasn't around. But you didn't. You hurt her, Maa. You made her feel like she didn't belong anywhere."
Manisha's composure broke. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks as she clasped her hands together. "I was wrong, Vidyut. I was blinded by anger... by fear. I never wanted to destroy her, I just— I thought I was protecting you. But all I did was hurt someone who deserved kindness."
Her voice cracked mid-sentence. "Please... forgive me, beta. Not for me — for her. For what she went through in this house."
Vidyut's jaw tightened, his eyes glistening. For a moment, he said nothing. Then slowly, he stepped closer and placed a trembling hand over hers.
"Forgiveness doesn't erase what happened," he murmured, "but maybe it's the only thing that can stop it from repeating."
Manisha broke down completely, hugging him tightly — a raw, desperate embrace of a mother who had long carried her guilt in silence. Vidyut stood still for a second, then wrapped his arms around her, closing his eyes.
When they finally parted, the room felt lighter — not healed, but no longer suffocating.
Parul, standing quietly near the door, smiled faintly. "Now that's what Ritvika would've wanted to see," she whispered.
Manisha nodded, sniffled, then turned toward Parul, who was holding a small pink velvet box. "Give it to me," she said softly.
Parul handed it over. Manisha opened the lid — inside were two tiny crowns, delicate and shining under the lamp light. She smiled through her tears and walked toward Tara.
"Come here, princess," she said gently.
Tara hesitated at first, clutching her toy, but Vidyut nodded at her reassuringly. Slowly, she took small steps toward Manisha.
Manisha bent down, eyes moist, and carefully placed the crown on her little head. "Now you look exactly like what you are — our princess."
Tara didn't pull away. She simply looked at Manisha with wide, curious eyes — and smiled. "Fank you," she said shyly, her voice small and soft.
A smile broke through Manisha's tears.
Then, with trembling hands, she turned toward Ritvika. Her steps were slow, reverent, almost sacred. She took out the second crown from the box and placed it gently on Ritvika's head, her fingers brushing through the still strands of her hair.
"Happy birthday, beta..." she whispered, voice breaking. "I should've said it long ago."
The monitors hummed softly in response, steady and alive.
Vidyut stood behind her, his eyes locked on Ritvika, his heart heavy with everything that was — and everything that wasn't. The room was quiet, yet filled with something achingly alive — forgiveness, love, and the kind of silence that speaks louder than words ever could.
Downstairs, the hall buzzed softly with laughter and chatter. Pink balloons hung above the buffet table, fairy lights twinkled gently around the curtains. The small celebration was simple — warm, homely, exactly what Lakshay had wanted.
Tara stood near the center of the room, her tiny pink frock shimmering under the lights, curls bouncing as she hopped excitedly. The doorbell rang, and the maid led in a woman with a small girl in tow.
"Piya!" Tara squealed the moment her eyes found her little friend. She ran to her, her arms flailing in pure excitement. "Piya! My cake big!" she said proudly, showing her the pink frosted cake that sat on the table.
Piya giggled, nodding, "It's so pretty!"
Piya's mother smiled gently and knelt to greet Tara. "Hello, sweetheart," she said softly, fixing the bow on Tara's dress.
Tara blinked at her, curious. Her tiny head tilted to the side as she stared at the woman for a few seconds, her little brain trying to process something she didn't quite understand.
Vidyut noticed the confusion in her eyes and came closer, smiling lightly. "Kitten, she's Piya's mumma," he said gently, brushing her curls aside.
Tara's gaze flickered between Piya's mother and Vidyut. Then, in her small, innocent voice, she whispered, "Piya... mumma?"
Everyone around smiled faintly, watching her adorable confusion — until the next words fell from her mouth, soft, unfiltered, and pure.
"Piya mumma no sleep? But my mumma sleep..."
The laughter in the room died almost instantly.
The smile on Piya's mother's face faltered as she looked at Vidyut — his face frozen, eyes heavy. Lakshay's hand tightened around his glass, and Parul looked away, biting her lip.
But Tara wasn't done. Her brows furrowed, and she looked at the woman again, stepping closer. "You also sleep like my mumma? She rest... but you no?" she asked, her voice breaking with confusion, her tiny hand clutching the hem of her frock.
The silence was suffocating. Every adult in the room felt the air grow thick — with pain, with helplessness, with the innocence of a child who didn't know what her words meant.
"Princess..." Vidyut finally spoke, his voice trembling but gentle. He crouched beside her, forcing a faint smile. "Not everyone sleeps like Mumma, hmm? Some people stay awake to eat cake with us."
Tara blinked, then looked up at him. "Mumma no cake?"
Vidyut's throat bobbed. He managed a smile — small, fragile. "Mumma... Mumma will eat later, baby. She's resting now."
Tara nodded slowly, still looking thoughtful, still too young to understand what rest really meant. Then she turned back to Piya and giggled suddenly, the moment of heaviness replaced by childish joy as she tugged Piya's hand. "Come, come! Cake cutting!"
The crowd exhaled quietly, some smiling faintly, others wiping away tears they didn't mean to shed. Vidyut stood still for a moment, watching his daughter run toward the cake table — her laughter echoing through the hall — before his eyes lifted toward the staircase.
Somewhere above, a woman lay unmoving under the soft hum of machines.
And even amidst all the celebration, his heart remained anchored there — with her.
??
It was close to midnight. The mansion had fallen silent — the lights dim, the corridors resting after the echo of laughter and celebration.
Upstairs, in the same softly lit room, Tara slept curled up on her small bed, her tiny hands wrapped around her stuffed bunny, her face peaceful after the long day.
Vidyut sat beside Ritvika's bed. The faint rhythmic beeping of the monitor filled the silence — steady, fragile, haunting. The dim light from the night lamp cast a soft glow over her face, her skin pale against the white pillow.
He looked at her for a long moment before speaking — his voice low, fond, almost teasing.
"Don't think I forgot your gift, hmm?" he murmured, gently brushing her hair back. "Your gift is coming soon, just a little wait."
He reached for his phone, unlocking it with a faint smile. "In the meantime, let me show you today's celebration, Ritvi."
He turned the screen toward her as if she were awake, as if she could see. "Look at this — Tara was looking like a real kitten, no doubt why I call her that," he said softly, scrolling through the pictures one by one.
His voice warmed as he spoke, narrating every image — Tara's frosting-covered face, Piya tugging her hand, the pink balloons, the small smiles from everyone.
Then his tone shifted, a shadow of hesitation brushing through his words.
"You know, today... all the family came to celebrate," he said quietly. "Including Maa."
He paused, his eyes flickering toward Ritvika's still hand. "I know you're upset with her... but she's genuinely sorry now. So I let her come near you."
He took her limp fingers into his hands, his thumb tracing soft circles over her knuckles. "You know, she even gave you a crown. She placed it on your head and said 'happy birthday, beta.'" His voice trembled slightly at the memory.
"She was insisting to stay tonight, to take care of you," he whispered, "but I said no. Until you forgive her, I'm not letting anyone in. That's between you and her."
For a moment, silence filled the space again. The ticking clock, the hum of the machine, the faint wind outside.
Vidyut leaned closer, pressing his forehead lightly against her hand, exhaling softly.
Then — a sudden vibration cut through the quiet.
He lifted his head. The phone on the bedside table buzzed softly, the screen lighting up with a familiar name. Ritvika's phone.
Vidyut glanced at it, and a faint smile curved his lips — the kind that held both pain and affection.
Vidyut pressed the phone to his ear, his gaze still lingering on Ritvika.
A familiar, high-pitched voice instantly burst through the speaker — anxious, hurried, and trembling.
"How's Ritu? Did... did any improvement happen? And—sorry, sorry, please wish her happy birthday!" the girl shouted so suddenly that Vidyut winced and moved the phone slightly away from his ear.
"Same as before, Ms. Roohi," he replied in a calm, low voice, eyes flickering toward Ritvika's still face.
There was a short pause before the voice on the other end mumbled nervously, "I-uhh... voh..."
Vidyut leaned back in his chair, his tone turning slightly sharper yet composed.
"Well, I hope you successfully did your job?" he asked, his words deliberate, carrying a quiet edge beneath their calm surface.
— — — — — — —