The door creaked open quietly.

Meher turned her head weakly toward the sound, expecting a nurse... maybe a doctor.

But instead, a woman stepped in — graceful, elegant, wrapped in a pastel cotton saree, holding a small thermos and a gentle smile that could melt anyone's guard.

Devika Malhotra.

Her eyes immediately softened as they landed on the fragile girl lying in the hospital bed.

"You're awake," Devika said gently, her voice like a lullaby. "Thank God."

Meher blinked, confused. "Aap...?"

"Don't worry," she said quickly, walking over and placing a hand softly on Meher's forehead. "You're safe now. My husband brought you here last night. You were unconscious on the road."

Meher's throat went dry. She tried to sit up again but winced.

"Slow, beta. Don't rush. You've been through enough."

There was something about Devika's presence — motherly, yet not invasive. Comforting, yet unfamiliar. It made Meher's eyes sting again.

"I... I didn't mean to cause trouble..." Meher whispered, guilt rising.

Devika squeezed her hand lightly. "You didn't. And even if you had, some people are worth the trouble."

Meher didn't know how to respond. It had been so long since anyone had said something kind to her... without expecting anything in return.

"I brought some warm soup. The doctor said you need energy. We'll talk once you've had something, okay?" Devika said, placing the thermos on the table and gently brushing Meher's hair from her forehead.

And just then — the door opened again.

Vikram Malhotra stepped in, holding a small paper bag with medicines.

When his eyes fell on the girl — awake, alert, and alive — a smile tugged at his lips, the kind that softened his sharp features.

"Well," he said, his voice full of relief, "looks like someone decided to finally rejoin us."

Meher looked at him, the man from last night — his voice now matching the blurred memory of someone calling her beta while lifting her gently into a car.

"I... I'm sorry, sir..."

"No, no." Vikram walked closer. "No apologies. You're safe. That's what matters. And you're not alone anymore, understood?"

For the first time in what felt like forever... Meher nodded.
A small, hesitant nod.

Maybe — just maybe — she wasn't as invisible to the world as she thought.

....

The morning sun filtered through the curtains of the Sharma household, casting a calm light on a home that felt anything but calm today.

In the kitchen, Tanya stirred her coffee absentmindedly while scrolling through her phone.

Her mother, Mrs. Sharma, was folding clothes, grumbling under her breath, "She must be hiding somewhere to create drama. I swear, this girl thrives on attention."

Tanya snorted. "Who walks out of the house in the middle of the night over some words? She's so overdramatic."

They hadn't seen Meher since the dinner drama. And for some reason, the silence in her room didn't sit right.

But neither of them bothered checking. They were too busy being right.

Just then, the main door creaked open.

Ramesh Sharma — Meher's uncle — walked in, bag in hand, his sudden presence making both women freeze.

Papa?" Tanya blinked. "You were supposed to come on Sunday..."

"I wrapped things up early and took the morning flight," Ramesh said, removing his watch. "Figured I'd surprise you all."

He noticed their unusually stiff expressions.
No cheerful greetings. No tea offer. No casual chatter.

His eyes narrowed. "Everything okay? Where's Meher?"

Tanya looked at her mother, unsure. Mrs. Sharma clicked her tongue.

"She walked out last night," she said, brushing off the tension like dust. "You know how she is. Melodramatic as ever."

Ramesh's heart skipped.

"What do you mean walked out?"

"She got emotional," Tanya chimed in with a shrug. "We were just talking. She overreacted like always and left. Late at night. Barefoot."

Ramesh took a step forward, voice rising, "And you let her leave like that? At night? Alone?!"

"Arrey Ramesh, don't start—she's not a child!" Mrs. Sharma argued. "She always acts like the victim. And don't forget—she's not even our responsibility!"

That was it.

Something snapped in him.

"She's my brother's daughter," he snapped, eyes flaring. "And for me, that means everything."

Tanya flinched.

"She hadn't eaten. She had nowhere to go. And you both stood by and watched her walk out like that?" he said, staring at the two women he had trusted with Meher's safety.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Without another word, Ramesh grabbed his phone and rushed out, heart pounding with worry.

....

The police station was dimly lit and smelled faintly of ink and stale files. Ceiling fans whirred lazily overhead while officers moved slowly between desks.

Ramesh Sharma rushed in, breath uneven, eyes scanning for help — for someone, anyone, who would listen.

He reached the front desk, where a constable looked up from his register.

"Yes, sir?"

"My niece... she's missing," Ramesh blurted out. "She left the house last night. She didn't take her phone. She's not at any relative's place. I've searched everywhere. I want to file a missing person report."

The constable raised an eyebrow. "When exactly did she leave?"

"Last night. Around 9:30 or 10. She hasn't returned home since."

The man sighed and leaned back.

"Sir, until 24 hours have passed, we can't register an official FIR for a missing adult."

Ramesh blinked. "What?"

"That's the rule. If she's above 18 and it hasn't been a full day, we treat it as voluntary absence. She may have gone somewhere on her own."

"She didn't!" Ramesh's voice cracked. "She left barefoot, hungry, and hurt. She was emotionally distressed!"

The officer sighed again. "I understand, sir. But even if I believe you, there's nothing legal I can do right now. You can check nearby hospitals, shelters, or wait till morning. If she doesn't return, come back. Then we'll take action."

Ramesh stepped back, helplessness punching through his chest.

He felt useless. Like time was laughing in his face while his Meher — his soft-spoken, brave-hearted girl — was out there, possibly alone and hurt.

He clenched his jaw.

If the system wouldn't move, he would.

....