Chapter 24: The Forgotten Frame

The morning sun slipped through the sheer curtains of their bedroom like a secret — quiet, golden, unforgiving.

Abir stirred first. His movements were slow, deliberate. He didn't want to wake her.

Maholi lay curled on her side, a soft sigh escaping her lips. Her hair tumbled over the pillow like ink, lashes fanning against her cheeks. She looked untouched by the chaos of the world. But he wasn't. Not anymore.

He watched her for a long moment, heart aching.How had a girl who once stumbled into his studio with shaking hands now become the anchor tethering his sanity?

And then he slipped out of bed.

In the study, the courier box from last night still sat unopened — a routine delivery, or so he'd assumed. He began sorting through contracts, old call sheets, and production memos.

Until his fingers brushed against an envelope.

Yellowed. Unmarked.Just one line, scrawled in a trembling hand:

"For You."

His breath caught.

He opened it slowly.

A photograph slipped out.Old. Sepia-toned. Torn at the edges like time had tried to erase it.

It showed four adults in front of a bungalow.

Maholi's father — unmistakable, proud — had his arm wrapped around a graceful woman, smiling: Maholi's mother.

To the left stood Ruchika's father.

And behind them, half in shadow, a woman in oversized sunglasses.

His stepmother.

At the bottom, written in faded blue ink:

S.K. Choudhury – 1997.

Abir's stomach twisted.

This wasn't just a photo.It was evidence.And worse — it was memory.

Suddenly, the walls seemed to move.

Fragments slammed into his mind.

A boy.Curtains.Raised voices.Glass shattering.A scream that never left his ears.A man's whisper: "The child saw it—he saw everything."

He clutched the table as the world spun.

He had been there.He had seen it.They had tried to make him forget.

Evening

The fireplace was lit, but the warmth didn't reach him. Abir sat stiff, the photo trembling between his fingers like it carried the ghost of that night.

When Maholi returned from a foundation event, she found him there — still, pale, haunted.

"Abir?" she asked, stepping toward him.

He looked up.

And she froze.

The eyes that met hers were not the ones she loved.They were a boy's eyes — wide, terrified, remembering.

"I think…" his voice cracked. "I think I remembered something."

She sat beside him as he handed her the photo.

She stared.

"That's my father…" she whispered. "And my mother—god… she was so young. But… that's your stepmother—"

"She's always been around," Abir said hollowly. "And look—Ruchika's father. They were all connected. Friends. Or something darker."

Maholi's fingers trembled.

"My uncle told me my father died in an 'accident'," she murmured. "My mother never spoke of it. But before she died, she kept saying strange things. 'The truth doesn't stay buried forever.'"

"I don't think she died of illness," Abir said. His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. "I think she died trying to protect someone."

Maholi's breath hitched. "You think she died for me?"

He shook his head.

"No," he said softly. "She died for me."

His hand tightened around hers.

"I was there, Maholi. I think… I think I saw what they did. To your father. To my mother. My stepmother tried to silence me. I used to have nightmares. I thought they were dreams. But they weren't."

Maholi's skin went cold.

"Then all this time... this wasn't fate. This was engineered."

"Yes." His voice was barely a whisper. "And the worst part? I think the people we trusted the most were in on it."

The fire cracked beside them — loud, angry, like it too remembered.

"I have to know," he said. "I have to rip this open. Whatever's behind it... whoever they tried to bury... I'll dig it all up."

Tears slid silently down Maholi's cheeks.

He turned to her, brushing them away with his thumb.

"I swear—on whatever's left of my childhood, on my mother's name—I will finish what they tried to erase."

She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his.

"I'll help you burn it down."

Later That Night

The storm outside was a scream.

Thunder shook the windows. Rain tore across the glass like claws.

Inside, the villa stood steady. But something inside them had shifted.

Maholi sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by notes, scribbled margins, and old articles. Letters written by her mother. Disjointed. Frantic. Full of dread.

Abir came in with two mugs of cocoa.

She looked up. "You still don't sleep, do you?"

He sat beside her, close. Quiet. "Not tonight."

They leaned back against the bed. The room smelled of firewood and ink.

For a long time, they said nothing.

And then Maholi whispered, "You were just a child. You shouldn't have carried any of this."

He turned his head to her. "And you lost everything. And still… you're the reason I'm still standing."

Her hand found his. Fingers threaded through.

"Maybe," she said softly, "we were both broken in the same direction. So we'd fit when we finally found each other."

He looked at her — and in that moment, all the pain, the fury, the grief in his bones melted into something gentler.

He cupped her face.And kissed her.

Not with fire. Not with hunger.But with the kind of ache that lives in old scars.The kind of kiss that says: thank you for surviving. Thank you for staying.

When their lips parted, she whispered, "Promise me something."

"Anything."

"When we uncover the truth… when everything comes crashing down… we don't walk away. From it. From each other."

He didn't hesitate.

"I already followed you through fire," he said. "I'm not stopping at ashes."