Chapter 3 (The Void He Left Behind)
Official Declaration
A week passed. Then two.
The search teams came back empty-handed every time.
The storm had cleared, but it had taken more than clouds — it had taken hope.
Each day began with a flicker of prayer and ended with silence.
Every ring of the phone made Shanaya’s heart leap — only to sink again when it was another condolence call, another empty reassurance, another polite lie wrapped in sympathy.
Rohan had tried to convince her to eat, to rest, but how could she, when the only person who could calm her wasn’t there to do it?
The once-vibrant Singh mansion had turned into a shrine of stillness.
Abhimanyu’s cufflinks remained on the dressing table, his favorite watch still ticking faintly inside the drawer. The scent of his cologne lingered in their room, haunting her more than comforting her.
And then, one morning — a knock on the door shattered that silence.
It wasn’t a casual ring, not the hesitant press of a friend. It was measured. Official.
Shanaya’s blood ran cold. Her trembling hands reached for the handle, and as she opened the door, two men in uniform stood before her — crisp air force jackets, caps tucked under their arms, faces marked with the heavy discipline of those who carry bad news often.
“Mrs. Shanaya Singh?” the older officer asked gently.
Her lips parted, her heart hammering in her ears. “Yes…”
The man took a deep breath before speaking, as if preparing himself for the weight of what he was about to deliver.
“The investigation into the missing helicopter has been concluded.”
Her throat tightened. The air around her seemed to vanish. “And…?”
The officer exchanged a brief look with his junior, then extended a sealed envelope stamped with the Aviation Safety Authority’s insignia — bold, red, final.
His voice lowered.
“The final report confirms that the crash site has been fully examined. Both pilots were recovered earlier. Despite extensive efforts, there’s been no trace of Mr. Abhimanyu Singh. Given the time elapsed and the conditions, he is now being officially declared deceased.”
Shanaya’s grip on the doorframe faltered. Her lips parted, but no words came out — only a faint, broken whisper of his name.
“Abhimanyu…”
The pause that followed was unbearable.
The officer bowed his head slightly. “I’m deeply sorry for your loss, ma’am.”
The word deceased echoed like thunder.
Cold. Final. Unforgiving.
It was as though the entire mansion exhaled in grief. The chandeliers above trembled faintly, the grandfather clock in the hallway struck noon — steady, merciless, and cruelly alive.
Shanaya blinked — once, twice — as if her mind refused to process what her ears had heard. Then the letter slipped from her hand, fluttering to the marble floor, its sharp edges cutting through the heavy silence.
Her knees buckled, her breath came out in broken gasps.
“Ma’am—” the younger officer reached forward, alarmed, but she staggered back, shaking her head violently.
“No,” she whispered. Her voice trembled, choked by disbelief. “No, you’re wrong… he promised he’d call me once he landed… he promised me dinner the next day… he promised—”
The words dissolved into sobs as she backed away, clutching her chest as if trying to hold her heart in place.
Rohan appeared in the doorway, his face drained of color.
He froze at the sight — the uniforms, the letter, Shanaya trembling like a broken reflection of the woman she used to be.
“Shanaya!” he shouted, rushing to her side just as her body gave way.
She collapsed against him, her sobs tearing through the air. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly, but she couldn’t hear him — couldn’t feel him.
Her world had gone silent.
There was no sound left, except the faint hum of the ceiling fan and the steady rhythm of her shattered heart.
Rohan looked over her shoulder at the officers, his eyes glistening with fury and helplessness. They gave a sympathetic nod and quietly left, closing the door behind them.
As it clicked shut, Shanaya’s muffled cries echoed through the empty house — raw, endless, and unbearably human.
Outside, the sky had cleared, a cruel contrast to the storm raging within her.
And somewhere, far away, the wind carried the scent of rain — as though heaven itself was mourning Abhimanyu Singh.
The Long Silence
The days after the declaration passed like blurred photographs — faint shapes, muted sounds, and a silence that pressed against every wall of the Singh mansion.
Shanaya didn’t speak for days.
Her voice, once warm and lilting, had withered into whispers that trailed off halfway. She stopped eating, stopped sleeping. Even her tears seemed to dry, leaving only an emptiness that hollowed her from within.
The housemaids tiptoed through corridors, afraid to make noise. The curtains remained drawn, shutting out the sun that once flooded their mornings. The only sign of life came from the faint hum of the refrigerator and the steady tick of the grandfather clock — the same one that had marked the moment her world fell apart.
Rohan visited every morning and stayed until night. He didn’t try to speak much — words had lost their meaning anyway. He simply sat beside her, bringing food she wouldn’t touch, reminding her softly to drink water, helping her lie down when her body refused to move.
Sometimes she would sit by the window, staring at the sky, murmuring things no one else could understand.
“He hates the rain… he always said storms made him restless…”
Rohan would stand silently behind her, listening — because interrupting her grief felt like sin.
At night, when she finally drifted into uneasy sleep, Rohan would cover her with a blanket and step outside the room, his hands clenched in helplessness.
He would walk to the terrace, look up at the stars, and whisper into the dark,
“Why did you have to go, Abhi? Why leave her like this… why leave me watching her break?”
The Singh and The Singhania family watched all this in heavy silence.
Shanaya’s mother, once regal and strong, now looked smaller — her eyes swollen from tears she refused to shed in front of others. She adored her daughter and watching her fade away each day was unbearable.
One evening, as the family gathered in the dimly lit living room, Rohan stood by the fireplace, lost in thought. Shanaya’s mother approached him quietly.
“Beta,” she said softly, “you’ve done more for her than anyone could. She listens to you… or at least, she lets you be near her. That means something.”
Rohan nodded faintly, though his throat tightened. “She doesn’t see me, Aunty. She only sees her loss.”
The woman sighed, looking toward the stairs that led to Shanaya’s room. “Still, she breathes because of you. If you weren’t here, I don’t think she would have lasted this long.”
Behind her, Abhi’s grandaunt (the sister of Abhi’s late grandmother who Abhi dearly loved)— the formidable Singh who had once ruled the household with discipline and grace — spoke from her rocking chair, her tone soft but decisive.
“Maybe it’s time we stop letting her live in ghosts,” she said, her wrinkled hands clasping the edge of her shawl. “Abhimanyu is gone… and she’s dying with him, little by little. Rohan is the only one who can bring her back.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with implication.
Rohan looked up sharply. “What are you saying?”
The elder’s gaze was unwavering. “I’m saying what everyone is afraid to. Shanaya needs to live again — and if you love her, truly love her, maybe you can help her do that. Maybe… you’re meant to.”
Rohan’s heart pounded painfully. He wanted to protest, to say it was too soon, too cruel — but when he thought of Shanaya, pale and hollow-eyed, clutching Abhi’s shirt as she slept, he couldn’t find the strength to argue.
He swallowed hard, looking away. “She’ll never forgive herself if she moves on.”
“Then don’t make her move on,” the elderly woman said quietly. “Just help her move… forward.”
That night, Rohan returned to Shanaya’s room. She was sitting on the floor by the bed, clutching a photograph of her and Abhi — her thumb tracing the edge of his face. Her eyes were distant, glassy.
He knelt beside her, speaking softly.
“You can’t live like this, Shanaya. He wouldn’t want you to.”
She didn’t reply. Only a faint whisper escaped her lips.
“I don’t know how to live without him.”
Rohan’s chest tightened. He gently took the photo from her hands and set it on the nightstand.
“Then let me help you remember how.”
For the first time in weeks, Shanaya looked at him. Her gaze was empty but searching, like someone trying to see through fog.
And as Rohan met her eyes, he knew — the woman he loved was still in there somewhere, buried beneath grief and guilt. All she needed was time… and someone who wouldn’t give up.
He made a silent promise to himself that night — not to replace Abhimanyu, not to claim what wasn’t his, but to protect what was left of her heart until she could stand again.
Outside, the rain began once more — softer this time, almost like a lullaby.
And somewhere far away, under a torn canopy of trees, Abhimanyu Singh stirred weakly in the wreckage, his breath shallow but alive.
The world believed him gone.
But fate, as always, had other plans.
The Unspoken Bond
Days blurred into nights. Shanaya moved like a shadow through her own home, her laughter a memory that haunted the walls. Rohan never left her side. He prepared meals she didn’t eat, brought her books she didn’t read, and quietly ensured the world outside didn’t intrude on her grief.
She hated that she depended on him, yet she did. It was a lifeline she couldn’t deny. He didn’t smother her; he simply existed in the same space, a steady presence amid the chaos of her heartbreak.
Sometimes, in the dead of night, she would wake, disoriented and trembling. Rohan would be there instantly, silent, brushing a stray hair from her damp forehead, holding her until her body unclenched, until her sobs slowed.
“Rohan…” she whispered once, barely audible.
“Shh,” he murmured, not forcing words. “It’s okay. You’re not alone.”
And in that moment, even though her mind screamed his presence was wrong, forbidden, she allowed herself to lean into him.
Shanaya’s mother and Abhimanyu’s grandaunt watched from afar, their eyes heavy with both sorrow and determination. Shanaya’s desolation had lasted long enough. It was time someone took gentle control.
“Rohan is the only one keeping her tethered to life,” the elderly woman said, her voice steady. “We can’t force love, but we can guide her.”
Shanaya’s mother nodded, her hands clenched. “It’s subtle. No pressure. But he needs to be her anchor now — and she needs to allow it. That’s all we can do.”
Meanwhile, Rohan remained unaware of their silent orchestration. To him, every shared glance, every quiet gesture was survival — not strategy. He was there because he couldn’t bear to see her collapse, and because, somewhere in the depths of his heart, he had never stopped loving her.
Shanaya, though outwardly fragile, felt a strange sense of safety in his presence. She would never admit it — not aloud, not to herself — but she had begun to rely on him. The warmth of his hand on hers, the faintly teasing lilt of his voice even in moments of grief, became the faintest thread pulling her back from despair.
One afternoon, she found herself sitting on the terrace, staring at the gray horizon. Rohan joined her quietly, placing a cup of tea in her hands.
“Drink,” he said softly. “It’ll warm you.”
She stared at him for a long moment, then took the cup. Their fingers brushed — and for the first time since Abhimanyu’s disappearance, she didn’t recoil.
“You always… make it feel like someone is watching over me,” she murmured.
“I am,” he replied quietly. “Not to replace him… just… to make sure you survive the storm.”
Shanaya’s eyes glistened with unspilled tears. “I don’t know if I can survive without him,” she admitted, voice trembling.
“You don’t have to be alone in this,” Rohan said. “I’m here. Always.”
For a fleeting moment, the grief and guilt melted, leaving only the fragile possibility of connection — an unspoken bond forming in the shadows of sorrow.
And in the background, the family began their quiet, deliberate maneuvering. They whispered to each other, shared glances, plotted gentle nudges, all aimed at a singular, unspoken goal: ensuring that Shanaya could live again, and that Rohan’s heart, which had waited patiently for years, might finally find the chance it deserved.
The stage was being set. Slowly, imperceptibly, life — and something more — was beginning to stir again.
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To be continued.
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