A U T H O R 'S  P O V 

She is six again.

A little girl with dust clinging stubbornly to her bare feet, her hair falling in messy strands across her forehead, and eyes that still hold no malice but only wonder.

In her tiny hands, she carries a pair of shoes. They are not hers. They are too large, too heavy, their leather cracked at the edges yet still beautiful in her eyes. They belong to her elder brother. He has never cared for them, never once polished them, never tucked them away with affection. To him, they are useless things, abandoned in a dark corner like unwanted memories.

But to her, they mean something different.

At six, she does not yet know the weight of rules, or the sharp edge hidden inside the word stealing. All she knows is the glow of her friend's smile, the boy who is leaving today. Leaving, because someone is finally adopting him.

The word is adoption. She has heard it whispered often, like a magic spell, sometimes with awe, sometimes with envy. She does not fully understand what it means. Only this: adoption is forever. And forever means he may never come back.

Her throat burns. Her eyes sting. But she does not cry. Crying, she believes, is losing. And she refuses to let him see her lose. She wants to be brave for him.

She runs back inside her house, her bare feet slapping against the cool floor. The afternoon light filters through the cracked window, painting golden squares across the mud-plastered walls. She bends near the wooden bed where her elder brother sleeps each night. Her small hands slip beneath the frame until they brush against leather.

The shoes lie there, half-forgotten, as though even the earth has grown weary of waiting for someone to notice them.

She pulls them out carefully, afraid that even the faintest creak will shatter the silence. They are heavier than she remembers, pressing against her tiny arms with all the weight of unspoken goodbyes. Yet she clutches them to her chest as if they are treasure.

For her brother, they are nothing.
For her friend, they could be everything.
And for her, at six years old, they are the only way she knows how to say goodbye.

She dashes out of the house, her little chest tightens, her tiny legs pump faster against the sun-baked earth, carrying her toward the place where she knows he will wait.

Because she told him to.

"Wait for me, Chaand!" she had shouted, voice small but firm, and he, who has known only waiting in his eight years of life, had obeyed. He stands now, in the afternoon's scorching heat, the dust curling around his bare ankles, the sun hammering against his back.
(CHAAND=MOON)

But he does not move. He waits. Because his little jugnu has told him to.
(JUGNU=FIREFLY)

And he always listens to her.

When he finally sees her running toward him, clutching something tightly to her chest, her hair flying loose like a wild breeze, his lips curve into a smile. That smile is not for the world, not for the family waiting to take him away. It is for her only. His jugnu.

But the smile trembles. The joy falters. His heart twists painfully as reality presses down that today he must leave her. Today he loses the only friend who ever looked at him not as an orphan, not as a burden, but as her Chaand.

He sees her eyes glimmering. Too bright, too brave. Pain swirls in them, but she does not let the tears fall. She will not cry. Not in front of him. Because she has always been brave for him. And for his jugnu, he swallows the lump in his throat, forcing his smile to stay.

She stumbles to a stop in front of him, breath hitching, chest rising and falling like she has run a marathon. Her face is flushed from the heat, but her hands do not loosen their grip from what she holds.

"Take this, Chaand," she huffs, shoving the shoes toward him with all the urgency her small frame can muster, making his eyes widen.

The shoes are worn out, their leather dulled and edges scuffed, but still sturdy, still protective. To anyone else, they are just an old pair tossed aside. But to him, they are a miracle. He has never owned shoes in his life. At the orphanage, the caretaker gave slippers only on rare days, when visitors were expected and that were thin rubber soles to make the children look presentable. The rest of the days, the children's feet knew only dust, stones, and scratches.

And now, in his hands, lies something he never dared to dream of.

"Where did you get this from, Jugnu?" His voice is firmer than he intends, edged with worry. He knows her family. He knows she should not have this.

But she only tilts her head and flashes her toothy grin, the one that always melts away his strictness. The grin that carries innocence and mischief in equal measure.

"My brother never wore this," she explains quickly, her words tumbling out like marbles. "He always disliked this pair. And yesterday I heard Baba saying he will buy him new shoes this Sunday. So it means he will never wear this one..." She pauses, eyes shining with pride. "So I took them. For you."

Before he can even respond, she starts kneeling down on the ground, her tiny fingers fumbling with the dusty laces. Her little knees ready to press against the rough earth, uncaring of the pebbles, ready to slip the shoes onto his feet herself.

But he reacts instantly. His heart lurches at the sight of her bending on the harsh, gritty ground, ready to scrape her delicate skin for his sake.

No. He cannot allow it.

He crouches quickly, sliding his arms under her and lifting her into the air before her knees can even touch the ground.

She lets out a squeal, startled, her arms flailing for balance. But within seconds, her legs lock around his waist, her tiny arms wrapping around his neck. Her surprise melts into bubbling laughter, a giggle so pure that it rings like bells in the heavy afternoon silence.

He feels the sound ripple through him, softening the ache of goodbye. For a fleeting moment, it almost feels like forever hasn't come yet.

Carrying her carefully, he walks toward the courtyard seat beneath the sprawling branches of the jamun tree. The old tree stands tall and patient, its shade falling over the dusty ground like a blessing. It has been their witness, their secret keeper, through their two years of friendship. Countless afternoons they had spent here, weaving little stories, sharing stolen sweets, laughing at nothing, and making promises their small hearts believed in.

"You shouldn't have brought this, Jugnu." His voice is soft, yet firm, like a boy who has grown up too quickly inside the walls of waiting. He looks at the shoes again, then back at her little glowing face. "You know how they are? If they find out, if they know about this, then..."

He cannot even finish the thought. He knows her family. He knows their harshness.

"Uffo, Chaand!" she huffs, her tiny brows knitting together. "I said na, no one will notice. Wear them. Pretty please."

Her lower lip juts out into a pout so dramatic that he cannot help it and his sternness cracks. A smile sneaks across his face. He pinches her little nose playfully, and she giggles, scrunching her face.

"Okay," he relents, his voice dropping into a teasing whisper. "But only if you also have it with me."

She blinks, confused, then looks at the shoes, tilting her head. "How?" she asks, her voice laced with wonder. "I brought two shoes, but now we have four legs. How can we two wear just these two shoes?"

He chuckles, shaking his head at her innocence. "My silly Jugnu," he says, tapping her forehead gently. "We won't wear them. We will keep one shoe each. So that whenever we miss each other, we can hug it tight and remember us. One shoe for you, one shoe for me. Our forever."

For a second, she just stares at him, eyes wide as if he has revealed a great secret of the world. Then her face lights up like sunrise, her small hands clapping in excitement.

"Ohho, you are ge-ge-genius, Chaand!" she exclaims, stumbling over the word but making it sound like the sweetest melody. And before he can say anything else, she throws herself onto him, tiny arms wrapping around his neck, squeezing with all the might her little body can muster.

He lets out a breathless laugh at the force of her embrace but does not move away. He holds her just as tightly, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other pressing her small frame against him as if he could keep her there forever. His throat tightens, and before he can stop it, a lone tear slips from his left eye. He quickly blinks it away.

Gently, he strokes her hair. His voice, when it comes, is low, almost breaking. "Now take this shoe with you, Jugnu. It's time. They must be waiting."

She pulls back slowly, her small hands still clutching at his shirt as if afraid he will vanish the moment she lets go. Her bright eyes, now filled with sadness, are so heavy for such a small girl. But then, as though she remembers her own vow of bravery, she lifts her lips into a smile.

A big one. A fake one. A smile meant to hide all the storms inside her chest, just so she can bid goodbye to him happily.

"Chaand," she says softly, her voice shaking but laced with authority. "Be a good boy. Always smile. Even if you feel sad, smile—thinking about your Jugnu. Promise me. And... and make many friends. Just boys, okay? Because your only girl-friend is me. Only me."

Her tiny chin juts forward like a queen's decree, and he cannot help but bow his head in playful submission.

"Yes, my Queen Jugnu," he replies, smiling, placing his hand dramatically on his chest as though swearing loyalty.

Her lips tremble, but she giggles, the sound tumbling out like chimes in the wind. The laughter lasts only for a moment before her smile falters again, fragile now. Her gaze drops, and she mumbles in a voice so faint he almost misses it:

"Do not forget me."

His head snaps up at the words. Her fear is naked, raw, trembling between them. He cups her cheeks, making her look at him.

"Never," he says firmly, every syllable heavy with conviction. "I could never forget you. Let me settle with them for a few days, Jugnu. Then I will come back here to meet you. If I see even a single scratch on you, I'll take you with me. That's a promise. From your Chaand."

Her eyes widen, and for a heartbeat, hope replaces the ache. "Will your new parents not be angry?" she whispers, almost fearful that her dream of his return might be snatched away by adults who always seem to decide everything.

He pauses, thinking of the couple waiting just beyond the dusty lane. The way they had smiled at him, not the forced smiles of charity, but gentle ones. The way they had asked him about his favorite food, his favorite color, his favorite stories, as though his little preferences mattered. As though he mattered.

"No," he answers slowly, honestly. "In a few minutes only, they felt... good. Not fake. My heart says so. They asked me about my favorite things—like they actually care. Just like you."

She listens intently, eyes wide and fixed on his face, as if carving every word into her memory. Then she nods, her shoulders easing just a little. For the first time that day, relief flickers in her chest. Her Chaand will have kind parents. Gentle ones. Unlike hers.

And even though her little heart feels like it is splitting in two, she finds comfort in that thought.

Soon, the moment, neither of them wanted, finally arrived. The adoption papers were signed, the process completed, and now he had to leave, with his new parents, toward a life she could only imagine.

"Take care, my little Jugnu," he whispers, voice trembling. He bends down and presses a soft kiss on her forehead, lingering as though he could imprint the memory there forever. In return, she rises on her tiny toes and kisses his cheek gently, her lips quivering. Neither of them says the words aloud, but both of their eyes spill tears in that moment, silent, helpless tears of love and parting.

And then he walks away, step by step, toward a new beginning. She stands rooted to the spot, forcing her lips into the biggest smile her small face can hold. She waves, her eyes shining with hope. In her heart she believes if ever the world hurts her, her Chaand will come back for her, just as he promised. She believes it with all her little heart.

What she does not know... is that she will never see him again. And already, within her own house, pain waits for her, a dark and merciless one.

She pushes open the old wooden door, stepping inside. A hush greets her, heavy and unnatural. But her innocent heart, too young to read the signs, does not sense the storm. She takes one more step and suddenly, fingers clutch at her hair, yanking so violently that her small throat bursts into a scream.

"Aaaahh.....Maa!" she cries out, her voice cracking with pain. But there is no mercy in the hands that pull, no softness in the face before her. It is her mother.

"Chorni kahin ki!" her mother spits, voice sharp as a whip. "Sharam nahi aayi? Apne hi ghar se chori karte hue? Aur upar se, is umar mein, ladko ke chakkar mein pad gayi!"
("You thief!")
("Aren't you ashamed? Stealing from your own house? And on top of that, at this age, getting yourself tangled up with boys!")

Her words cut as cruelly as her grip. With a shove, she thrashes the little girl into a corner, her fragile body crashing against the wall. The child sobs, trembling, her cries echoing like broken glass across the empty room.

And then a pain sears through her again. A scream rips from her lungs as the iron rod comes down hard against her tender wrist.

"AAAHHHHH!" Her voice is raw, shaking the silence.

But suddenly her surroundings shift.

A woman, grown now, jerks awake, drenched in sweat. Her chest rises and falls in panicked waves, her throat choking with soft sobs. Her wide eyes are wet, haunted by the ghost of that memory.

The door bursts open with a jolt. Someone rushes inside, and before she can collapse beneath the weight of her fear, arms wrap around her tightly. A voice filled with worry and love soothes her, grounding her back into the present.

She is no longer that six-year-old girl. But in her dreams, she still is.

"Diyu, shhh... nothing happened," the voice comes, soft and trembling. The person who rushes into the room and gathers the panic stricken woman into her arms. It is Aakriti. And the woman gasping for breath, clutching the sheets with shaking hands, is Diya.

But Aakriti's words do little. Because this is not just a nightmare. This is the truth. This is her childhood, burned into her bones.

"Aaku... she... she burnt me... she hurt me again..." Diya whispers, her voice broken, small, like that six-year-old all over again. Tears sting her eyes, then slip down her cheeks, unstoppable.

"Diya, listen to me. It was a nightmare. It's past. You're not there anymore. Now, no one can touch you, my Diyu," Aakriti whispers back, stroking her hair. Yet even as she soothes, her own heart twists in pain. Watching Diya like this feels like her own chest is being ripped apart.

But Diya shakes her head, desperate, trembling. "She hurt me... see, Aaku... look. She burnt me. I'm not lying..." Her fragile wrist rises into the dim light, and there it is—the mark. The burn, cruel and undeniable.

Aakriti's breath catches. Her hands tremble, but she steadies them, refusing to break in front of her. Gently, she cups Diya's face in both palms. "I believe you, my doll. I trust you. But it is over. It happened in the past. And I swear to you—no one can, no one will ever harm you again. If anyone tries, I'll tear them apart with my own hands. Do you trust your Aaku?" Her voice is steady, fierce, a shield.

And slowly, Diya breathes, her tears softening into hiccups. Her wide, wet eyes search Aakriti's face, and she nods faintly. "I trust you..." Then she adds in a trembling whisper, "But don't hurt anyone. I know you. You'll get hurt..."

Aakriti lets out a small laugh, though her throat aches. She leans forward, pressing her lips to Diya's forehead. "Oh, my sweetheart. Nothing in this world hurts me more than your tears. Now stop crying, my doll." Her thumb wipes the trails of sorrow from Diya's cheeks, tender and slow.

Diya closes her eyes, leaning into the touch. "Whenever you call me 'doll,' I feel safe... every time." She doesn't know why the word warms her so much. Maybe because it makes her feel precious.

She swallows hard, guilt pricking her. "I'm sorry... I disturbed your sleep." The words tumble out small, ashamed. Somewhere deep down, she always fears she is too much, too ruined. She fears that one day, even Aakriti will grow tired of holding her.

But Aakriti shakes her head, eyes fierce. "Tere liye toh meri jaan bhi kurbaan hai. Ye neend kya cheez hai, meri praanpriya." She says it playfully, her voice lilting to lighten the air and Diya lets out a small chuckle.
("For you, I could even give my life. What is sleep compared to you, my dear.")

Aakriti smiles, victorious in her small battle. "It's only 3 a.m. Come. Sleep. I'll sleep here with you." Her tone is firm, leaving no room for argument. She knows Diya and if she isn't strict, then this girl will stay awake all night, and tomorrow her head will ache. And Aakriti cannot bear to see her in pain.

Diya sighs, surrendering. "Okay... let me go to the washroom first."

Aakriti nods. "Go. I'll switch off the lights in my room and come back." She rises and slips away.

Diya steps into the bathroom. The mirror shows her tear streaked face, and she splashes cool water, watching the ripples blur her reflection. Her eyes drift down, unbidden, to her wrist. The burn mark stares back at her, a scar that has outlived the years.

But instead of tears, a soft smile curves her lips. Her fingers move to the small cabinet by the wall. She opens it gently, as though guarding a treasure, and there it is. The tiny shoe. Dusty, worn, almost falling apart. Yet when she lifts it, her heart fills with warmth, not pain.

She hugs it close, pressing it to her chest as though it were a heartbeat. Her lips tremble, and a whisper escapes into the silence, fragile as a prayer.

"I miss you, Chaand."

The walls hear her. The shadows hear her. But no one else. And maybe that is how it should be.

Because some memories are too tender for the world.

Some feelings are not meant to be shouted, only held quietly in the heart that are fragile, sacred, untouchable.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

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