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Third person’s pov!

Aryan stepped into the house, exhaustion clinging to every bone in his body. It had been an unrelenting day at the hospital—rounds that never seemed to end, a complex surgery that demanded every ounce of focus, and a dozen other things he hadn’t even had time to process.

But the moment he entered the living room, the weight on his shoulders lifted—just a little.

There, on a soft mat spread across the floor, baby Mannat lay on her tummy, tiny legs kicking as she babbled and shook a colorful rattle. Beside her, Mythily sat cross-legged on the floor, gently playing along, her eyes crinkled with delight.

The sight made Aryan still for a moment. A quiet smile tugged at his lips, unbidden. It was… peaceful. Warm. Like a memory from a distant, untouched part of his heart.

A vision of what could have been. Of what had once been hoped for.

“Aryan, you are home.” His mother looked up and smiled, her eyes lighting up when she saw him.

At the sound of her voice, baby Mannat turned her head—and the moment her eyes met his, she broke into a wide, toothless grin. A soft coo followed, the rattle momentarily forgotten in her chubby little hands.

Aryan felt something stir deep in his chest. It was strange, the way that smile made him feel… as if he belonged somewhere again.

“I will freshen up.” He cleared his throat lightly and gave them both a nod. 

“Go on. Dinner is almost ready,” Mythily said, returning her attention to the baby.

As Aryan made his way upstairs, he couldn’t help glancing back once, then again. The image of his mother sitting with a baby like that—it tugged at something inside him. A longing he didn’t realize still lived within him.

He showered quickly, eager to return to that strange comfort waiting downstairs.

When he came back down, the living room still carried the soft energy of warmth and innocence. His mother was now gently tickling Mannat’s tummy, making her giggle.

Aryan settled on the couch, his body finally relaxing. Just as he leaned back, a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice appeared before him.

“Thanks,” he murmured, glancing up to find Mahima.

She gave him a polite nod, but before he could say more, she bent down, carefully lifted Mannat from the mat, and rolled the mat up in one swift motion.

Aryan frowned slightly as she turned, baby and mat in hand, and began walking briskly toward the kitchen.

Aryan felt his heart sink. The brief sense of peace he had found earlier evaporated like mist in sunlight. In its place came a flicker of frustration—unfair, perhaps, but directed at Mahima nonetheless.

“That girl,” Mythily said with a weary sigh. “She had laid the baby down in the kitchen earlier. I had to insist she bring the child into the living room. But the moment she saw you, she picked her up and hurried away.”

“What?” Aryan snapped, his voice edged with disbelief. “It’s not like I am going to eat her baby.”

“That’s not what she thinks,” Mythily replied calmly. “She just doesn’t want to inconvenience anyone.”

“How is she, though? Are you okay with her being in the kitchen?” Aryan exhaled slowly, trying to steady the emotions tightening his chest. 

“She is a lovely girl, Aryan. Quiet, but efficient. The kitchen is spotless, and everything is in its place. And the food—delicious. I had a hearty lunch today.” A smile curved on Mythily’s lips. 

“Miracles do happen, then. Mythily Acharya complimenting someone in her sacred kitchen? I had even contacted a few backup agencies this morning, convinced you would throw her out by the end of the day.” Aryan raised an eyebrow, amused.

“Even if she hadn’t known her way around the kitchen, I wouldn’t have sent her away.” Mythily playfully smacked his thigh. 

“Why not?” Aryan asked, his smile fading into a more thoughtful expression.

Mythily sighed, the lines around her eyes softening. 

“Because…” She hesitated, then shared everything Remya had told her.

Aryan listened silently. When she finished, he sat back, his thoughts turning inward. His own past loomed before him—raw, painful. But he had had something Mahima didn’t: a family that believed in him, that stood by him through every storm.

What if they hadn’t?

The thought hollowed him out.

And here was this girl. Alone. Abandoned. Yet still fighting—fighting her fate, refusing to give in.

Something shifted in Aryan then. A quiet respect, wrapped in sorrow.

“She is braver than most,” he murmured.

“Yes. She is.” Mythily nodded.

A sharp cry from the kitchen cut through the air, drawing all attention. Mythili headed toward it, with Aryan trailing close behind, feigning the need to return his juice glass. Inside the kitchen, they found Mahima frantically transferring food into a casserole. On a mat nearby, the baby wailed. Aryan's brow furrowed, noticing Mahima's inattention to the distressed infant.

Mythili, without a word, knelt and scooped up the baby. 

"Mahima, look at her," Mythily chided, "she is sweating. I told you to lay her in the living room." Mahima's gaze flickered uncomfortably toward Aryan.

"Maa, I have patient files to review tonight," Aryan interjected, his voice flat. "Just leave dinner on the table. I will eat when I am finished." With that, he turned and ascended the stairs.

Mythili carried the baby into the living room. As they settled under the fan, the baby, finally free from the kitchen's stifling heat, gurgled contentedly.

Leaning back against the headboard, Aryan felt his mind descend into its familiar, tormenting replay. Four years had passed, yet the past remained an unyielding presence. How could any man forget such a betrayal? The blow she dealt him was one no man could truly overcome. The embarrassment, the sympathetic glances, the scorn disguised as concern—all of it surged through his thoughts.

He clutched his hair, pulling at it in desperation. 

"Is there no escape from this hell?" He whispered to the empty room.

A/N

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