Inside garden

The ballroom was a pressure cooker of ambition, and Nithyamathi was its lead operator. She steered you through the throng of elite guests, her hand clamped firmly on your forearm, her nails digging in just enough to remind you who was in charge.

She had cornered a group of influential businessmen, her smile wide and artificial, positioning you directly in their line of sight. "My daughter, Priya," she cooed, tilting your chin up as if you were a porcelain doll. "She’s been recovering from a brief illness, but she is ready to re-enter society. She is so graceful, wouldn't you agree?"

She maneuvered, trying to force a conversation between you and an aging, wealthy textile mogul, but your mind felt like it was submerged in water.

You didn't know what to say, and your blank, vacant expression made the mogul shift uncomfortably before he excused himself to "check on his portfolio."

Nithyamathi’s face contorted into a mask of fury, but she smoothed it over in an instant, her eyes darting across the room to find her real target.

The moment she turned to signal a waiter, you saw your opening. You didn't plan it—you just moved. You slipped behind a heavy velvet curtain, skirted through a service hallway, and burst out into the cool, shadowed serenity of the garden.

Here, the air was clean, stripped of the scent of expensive cigars and desperation. You found a stone bench beneath a weeping willow and exhaled, your shoulders finally dropping.

That peace, however, was shattered by the sound of shrill, cruel laughter.

Tucked behind a manicured hedge, three boys, perhaps seven or eight years old, were circling a much smaller child. The little boy couldn't have been more than four. He was dressed in a crisp, expensive blazer that looked far too formal for the setting, his dark hair neatly parted.

He stood still as a statue, his eyes wide and glassy, making no sound as the bigger boys shoved him, calling him a "lost little prince" and laughing at his silence.

Something inside your chest—a flicker of something raw and protective—snapped.

"Hey!" your voice rang out, sharper than you expected.

You stormed over, the silk of your lehenga rustling aggressively.

The bullies looked up, startled by the intensity in your eyes, and scrambled away toward the party lights. You didn't even watch them go. You knelt down, your face level with the boy’s.

"Are you okay?" you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.

Before you could say another word, the boy moved. He lunged forward, wrapping his small, firm arms around your neck, burying his face in your shoulder.

He smelled like expensive soap and fresh laundry. You froze, your hands hovering in the air. A phantom sensation washed over you—a feeling of motherhood, a weight you once carried, but the memory was gone, leaving only this sudden, intense warmth in your arms.

You pulled back slightly, smoothing his hair. "It’s okay. You’re safe now. How about I get you some ice cream? And then you can tell me where your parents are, and we’ll go find them, alright?"

He looked up at you, his eyes large, dark, and profoundly lonely. He didn't say a word. Furthermore, he didn't even blink, just stared at you with a look of recognition that sent a jolt of electricity down your spine.

You reached into your small bag, pulling out your phone, hoping he might know his parents' number or perhaps have a device of his own. You held the screen out to him, offering it as a lifeline.

The boy didn't look at the phone. He ignored it entirely, his small fingers reaching out to grasp your hand instead. He held your palm tightly, pressing it against his warm cheek, his eyes never leaving yours.

In that silence, it felt as though he was waiting for you to know him, as if his touch was a key trying to turn a lock in your mind.

Inside the party, Nithyamathi was frantic, scanning the room for you, her eyes finally landing on the garden entrance.

She stepped outside, her expression darkening as she saw you kneeling by the hedges, holding hands with a small, well-dressed child—a child who looked suspiciously like the son of the man she had just been eyeing across the room.

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