Chapter-46

Author's POV,

Two days bled into one another, a blur of sterile white and throbbing pain. When Pihu finally stirred, the ceiling swam before her eyes. A flicker of life returned to her pale face, chasing away the remnants of a nightmare. Beside her, Rudra, his face etched with worry and exhaustion, sat a silent vigil. Relief flooded his features as her eyelids fluttered open.

Before a word could escape his lips, the doctor entered, his presence a brief interruption in the tense quietude. After a curt examination and reassurances of Pihu's improving condition, the doctor left, leaving behind an echoing silence. Rudra, his movements heavy with fatigue, took his place beside her once more, his hand seeking hers.

The touch was surprisingly gentle as he brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead. "Don't be afraid, Pearl," he rasped, his voice thick with sleep deprivation. A tremor ran through Pihu at the concern lacing his words. "I'm here. I won't leave you."

Pihu met his gaze, a flicker of warmth battling the wariness that still clung to her like a shadow. Despite the resentment coiled tight within her, a small, fragile smile tugged at the corner of her lips. It was a concession, a flicker of gratitude for the comfort his presence offered, however unwelcome it might be.

Rudra continued, his voice barely a whisper. "It's all my fault. I failed to protect you." A lone tear escaped him, tracing a glistening path down his cheek. The sight of the usually stoic mafia king so vulnerable sent a strange mix of emotions swirling within her.

"These past two days, while you were unconscious," he confessed, his voice rough with emotion, "I thought a lot about my actions. I know I've been selfish, bringing you into this dangerous world. But after many years I find light in my darkness and I can't loose you. You're the only family I have left, Pearl, besides Veer. I can't bear to lose another person I care about."

Rudra squeezed her hand gently, his voice barely a whisper. "I know you don't trust me, Pearl. You hate everything about this life – the mafia, the control, the way I confined you. But please, give me a chance. A chance to prove myself as a man worthy of your trust, to make amends for what I've done." His voice cracked slightly. "I'll do anything to be the kind of man you deserve. Just... be patient with me. And promise me you won't try to run again, especially not if it means putting yourself in danger."

Pihu was speechless. Seeing Rudra so broken, his usual steely gaze replaced with raw vulnerability, stirred a part of her she hadn't expected. Despite her pain and fear, a strange urge to comfort him welled up within her.

In a gesture that surprised even herself, Pihu squeezed his hand back, her touch hesitant yet comforting. Her doe-like eyes held a mixture of confusion and trying to found understanding.

He didn't know why, but he felt an overwhelming urge to confess everything. To lay bare his soul, the darkness that clung to him, and the pain he'd buried deep. These two days, haunted by Pihu's pale face and wracked with guilt, had shredded his defenses.

"Seeing you like this," he rasped, his voice thick with emotion, "it brought back memories of the two most important people I lost. It made me realize and remember... I never wanted this dark life forget about being mafia king. This darkness."

Pihu watched him, her heart clenching in a way that surprised her. The disgust in his voice as he spoke of being a mafia king sent a tremor through her. It was a stark contrast to the image of power and control he usually projected.

"How can I embrace something my own mother hated so much?" he continued, his voice laced with disgust. "She ran away from this world, from my bastard farther, Yashvardhan, to protect me from it. Even if it meant leaving everything behind."

"I was only four," he confessed, his voice barely a whisper. Shame tinged his words as he spoke of such a vulnerable time. "She promised she'd return in two days, after making arrangements for a new life for us. I waited at the orphanage gate, day after day, clinging to that promise." His eyes welled up, a tear tracing a glistening path down his cheek. It was a sight that shook Pihu to her core.

"But she never came back," he finished, his voice breaking. The raw vulnerability in his gaze was a stark contrast to the hardened man she knew.

Pihu felt a surge of conflicting emotions. Here was the man who held her captive, yet a part of her ached for him. The image of a small, abandoned child resonated within her, twisting the knife of her resentment. She didn't know what to say, caught between the yearning for freedom and this unexpected flicker of... empathy?

"But after some days," Rudra continued, his voice rough, "I got news that she died in an accident. As a four-year-old, I didn't understand the world around me, the sight of my mother, bruised and broken, the way she cried while holding me."

He paused, his jaw clenching for a moment. "With time, I accepted the truth – I had no one left. I became a silent child, withdrawn from everyone. But then, when I was nine, someone entered my life who made my heart bloom again like a flower." A spark lit in his eyes as he spoke the last line.

Emboldened by a newfound determination, Rudra continued, delving deeper into his past.

Flashback Starts,

The orphanage was a constant hum of noise – crying babies, echoing shouts, and the ever-present creak of floorboards. I, a small, stoic shadow, preferred the quiet corner by the dusty window. It was my haven, a world built of whispered daydreams and the slow dance of dust motes in sunlight.

Then, one day, a whirlwind of sunshine and scraped knees burst into my sanctuary. A tiny girl, barely seven, with hair like silk and eyes that held the boundless curiosity of a kitten, stood before me. It was Ayana.

"Why are you all alone?" she chirped, her voice a melody that shattered the silence I'd grown accustomed to.

I mumbled a response, pulling my knees tighter to my chest, hoping she'd lose interest and skip away. But Ayana wasn't easily deterred. She plopped down next to me, her tiny hand reaching out to tentatively touch mine. My initial flinch surprised even me, but Ayana simply smiled, a gap-toothed grin that could melt the frost off a snowman's heart.

"I'm Ayana," she declared, her voice ringing with pride. "What's your name?"

"Rudra," I mumbled, surprised at the sound of my own voice after so long.

Days turned into weeks, and Ayana became a constant presence. We'd share stolen moments by the window, weaving stories from the clouds scudding across the sky. She'd chatter about her parents, their faces forever blurry in her memory, a car accident stealing them away when she was just a toddler. Sometimes, a flicker of fear would cloud those bright eyes, a fear that mirrored the hollowness I felt deep within.

In her, I saw a reflection of myself – a shared sorrow that neither of us quite understood. But Ayana, unlike me, wasn't consumed by it. Her laughter, like tinkling bells, chased away the shadows that clung to me.

Slowly, I began to respond. A hesitant smile here, a whispered word there. Ayana, my Flower, nurtured my spirit with her boundless optimism, coaxing me out of my shell. We were two lost souls, adrift in a sea of uncertainty, finding solace in each other's company.

One sunny afternoon, after a particularly imaginative story about a brave princess rescuing a lost cloud, Flower turned to me, her chin held high.

"You know," she declared, her voice filled with a quiet determination, "we can be a family. You can be my big brother, and I'll be your little sister. Alright, Bhai."

The word "family" was a foreign one to me, yet the warmth that bloomed in my chest at her words felt strangely familiar. A hesitant smile tugged at the corners of my lips. "A family?"

Ayana beamed, her eyes crinkling at the edges. "Exactly! We'll take care of each other, have adventures, and eat all the cookies in the jar!"

The thought of cookies, a rare treat at the orphanage, brought a genuine laugh bubbling up from my chest. It was a sound I hadn't realized I'd missed. "Alright, little sis," I said, ruffling her hair, "we'll be the best darn family this orphanage has ever seen."

For the first time in a long time, a flicker of hope ignited within me. Maybe, just maybe, Ayana was right. Maybe, together, we could build something new, something beautiful, amidst the ruins of our past.

But sometimes, the shadows of the past have a way of creeping back in.

She truly became my family. Just like her name, Ayana, which means "beautiful flower," she bloomed in the most unexpected corner of my life. Her laughter, like the tinkling of wind chimes, chased away the silence that had become my constant companion. Her smile, bright and radiant, was the first ray of sunshine that had pierced the darkness within me.

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When I was 14, I was at the park near the orphanage with Flower, playing with her, then I saw some people beating a boy who was just my age at the other side of the park near a store. I went there to see what was happening.

Three people were savagely beating him for stealing bread from a shop. I could see from the boy's clothes that he was from a good family, but the way he dressed, it looked like he hadn't bathed for days. I intervened and saved him and paid for the stolen bread which I earned from a grandma while helping her.

"It's okay now, everything's going to be okay," I assured him, helping him up.

It was Rajveer whom I saved. As I brought Rajveer back to the orphanage, he seemed lost in his own thoughts, his eyes haunted by the recent tragedies that had befallen him. I could see the pain etched on his face, and my heart ached for him.

"Hey, it's going to be alright," I said, trying to offer some comfort as we walked. "You're safe now. You have a place to stay here."

Rajveer nodded, but his eyes remained distant, as if he was reliving the traumatic events over and over again in his mind. When we reached the orphanage,Flower rushed over, her eyes wide with concern.

"Who's this, Bhai?" she asked, looking up at me with big, worried eyes.

"This is Rajveer," I replied, crouching down to her level. "He's going to stay with us now."

Ayana's face lit up with a bright smile. "Hi, Rajveer! I'm Ayana. We're going to be like a big family now!"

Rajveer managed a small smile in return, but I could see the weight of his sorrow still pressing down on him. We settled Rajveer into the orphanage, and as the days passed, he slowly began to open up to us.

Rajveer's story spilled out in a rush of words, each one more heartbreaking than the last. He had lost both his parents in quick succession, his father to suicide and his mother to a heart attack brought on by the stress of their financial troubles. With no one else to turn to, he had been living on the streets, barely surviving. Just like this he also become the part of our family.

One rainy afternoon, the orphanage was especially gloomy. The leaky roof dripped a steady rhythm, and a cold wind whistled through the drafty halls. Curled up on the floor of our shared room, we were a huddle of misery. Flower, usually a ball of sunshine, sniffled quietly, her eyes red-rimmed. Rajveer stared out the window, his face etched with a stoic sadness that mirrored my own.

An idea sparked in my mind, a desperate attempt to chase away the gloom. "Let's tell stories!" I announced, my voice surprisingly cheerful.

Ayana's head snapped up, a glimmer of interest replacing the tears. "Stories?"

Rajveer, ever the pragmatist, raised an eyebrow. "What kind of stories?"

Ignoring his skepticism, I grinned. "Adventure stories! Of brave heroes and magical lands." I launched into a tale I'd cobbled together from scraps of overheard conversations and whispered bedtime stories. There was a courageous princess, a talking monkey sidekick (inspired by a mischievous squirrel I'd seen earlier), and a quest to find a hidden treasure (a loaf of fresh food, the rarest commodity in the orphanage).

As my story unfolded, Flower's sniffles subsided, replaced by gasps of delight. Rajveer, initially aloof, found himself leaning in, a faint smile playing on his lips. By the time I reached the climactic battle with a fire-breathing dragon (a particularly grumpy cook at the orphanage), we were all lost in the world I'd created. Even the rain seemed to quieten, as if captivated by our tale.

When the final word was spoken, a comfortable silence descended upon us. Flower snuggled closer, her eyes sparkling. "That was amazing, Bhai! Can we have another story tomorrow?"

Rajveer, a hint of a smile still lingering, mumbled, "Not bad, for a made-up story."

A warmth bloomed in my chest, a feeling far more nourishing than any meager meal. In that shared moment of imagination, we weren't just orphans huddled against the cold. We were adventurers, comrades, a family bound by the stories we wove together.

Together, the three of us faced the challenges of life in the orphanage like a well-oiled machine. Ayana, with her infectious optimism, was the sunshine that brightened even the gloomiest days. Rajveer, quiet and stoic, was the rock, his unwavering loyalty a constant source of strength. We shared everything – stolen moments of laughter echoing through the dusty hallways, whispered dreams under threadbare blankets, and the meager meals stretched thin to feed all three of us.

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To be continued.......

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