Hiya awoke slowly, as if surfacing from a dream that hadn't quite let go.
The ceiling above was smooth, painted in elegant cream, nothing like the cracked plaster and spinning fan she knew back home. For a brief moment, she thought she might still be dreaming.
But the softness of the mattress, the faint scent of lavender in the sheets, and the faraway hum of city life reminded her — this was real.
The journey, the letter, the tall black gate…
And the boy with the serious eyes who caught her before the world collapsed.
She sat up carefully. Her feet touched the polished floor like it might shatter under her village-worn soles.
A knock came at the door — light, friendly.
"Hiya? I'm Riddhi," came a cheerful voice.
Hiya opened the door a sliver and found a radiant woman with soft curls, laughing eyes, and a tray of neatly folded clothes.
"I brought you something comfortable to wear for now. Hope it fits."
Hiya accepted them shyly — pale blue trousers and a soft white T-shirt. She clutched the fabric like it might vanish.
"I… I don't usually wear these," she whispered. "But I'll try."
Riddhi grinned. "Trust me, you'll look adorable. I'll wait."
Inside, Hiya held the clothes up against her body, uncertain. No salwar? No dupatta? She looked at herself in the mirror — full cheeks, wide eyes, nervous fingers.
She wasn't a city girl.
But she was brave.
She changed quickly, smoothing her hair and trying to hide her soft stomach under the loose T-shirt. When she saw her reflection again, she let out a small, surprised laugh.
Not because she looked odd — but because she looked like someone in a library book.
Modern. Nervous. But curious.
When she stepped out, Riddhi clapped. "You look like a snowdrop in spring."
Hiya's cheeks turned rosy. "Really? I thought I looked… strange."
"Strange? You look like sunshine on a clean bedsheet," Riddhi winked.
They settled on the living room sofa. Riddhi poured her a tall glass of mango juice and asked gently, "Feeling better?"
Hiya nodded, but her eyes were wide with questions — and soon, they spilled out.
"Didi, do you cook with a clay stove here?"
"What's that giant box in the kitchen?"
"Is that really a washing machine?"
"And how does the light stay on all the time here?"
Riddhi was charmed. Utterly. Each word from Hiya was like a breeze through a closed window.
Hiya spoke about her school, her stern-but-sweet teacher, the village dog who followed her everywhere, and the stories she borrowed from the one-room library — even when the pages were missing.
Just then, a tall man entered the room, composed and regal in a maroon kurta. His spectacles glinted in the soft morning light.
Riddhi stood. "Hiya, this is Arijit da — Dev's elder brother."
Hiya stood quickly, palms pressed together. "Namaste, dada."
Arijit smiled warmly. "So, you're the sunshine we've heard about."
He handed her a small box wrapped in red paper. "Our tradition — chocolates for anyone who enters this house with a story."
Hiya laughed softly, covering her mouth. "Thank you, dada."
"Only if you promise to share them with me later," he teased.
Moments later, the front door opened with the rustle of silk and the music of bangles.
Dev's mother and grandmother had returned from the temple — sandalwood paste glowing on their foreheads, jasmine tucked in their hair.
Riddhi rushed forward to explain.
Hiya stood, unsure — but the women came to her before she could even finish rising.
Dev's mother cupped her cheeks gently. "So you're my Malini's little girl."
Hiya blinked. "You… knew my mother?"
"We did," said the grandmother, her eyes misty. "She was fire and melody. Once slapped your father during Saraswati Puja when he flirted too much."
Hiya gasped. "She what?"
"Oh yes," Dev's mother chuckled. "And the fool married her the next year."
They all laughed, loud and lovely — the kind of laughter that filled cracks in tired hearts.
Hiya wiped her eyes. "No one told me these things. I never knew."
"Then we'll tell you," the grandmother promised. "Bit by bit. Day by day. You're home now."
And with that, Dev's mother wrapped her in an embrace so tight, so maternal, Hiya could barely breathe — and didn't want to.
She closed her eyes, letting her head rest on the woman's shoulder. For the first time in years, her heart didn't ache with absence.
She didn't feel like a guest. Or a burden.
She felt like a daughter.
Someone's child.