Hello my pookies!

Although this isn't my first story but I'm trying to write from a new perspective here.

English is not my first language, so I'm bound to make some spelling or grammar mistakes, that i hope you don't mind.

I'm new on this platform, so please support me and give me power to keep on writing 😁

I won't take your much time, so let's just start the story!

Morning arrived quietly, like a soft breath through the trees.

The sky shifted from deep blue to pale amber, and the first rays of sunlight peeked over the edge of the horizon, spilling across the fields in golden streaks.

The grass, still damp with dew, glistened as if dusted with tiny stars.

Birds stirred in the branches above, chirping their sleepy songs into the cool air.

And on the other side, in dark, small basement where no sunlight was present except for the dimly lit bulb which was flickering from time to time casting haunting shadows across the small room, which roughly outlined the things in it.

The room was so small that there weren't even much things present in there.

Like a typical basement, it has racks which were filled from ceiling to floor with different different kind of things from waste unused clothes to tool box, from some rusted metal objects to garbage.

In the farthest corner of the room lay a thin, torn mat, dust clinging stubbornly to its fibers. And upon it stirred a small fragile figure, wrapped in a threadbare shawl, her body curled as though trying to shield itself from the world.

Her small hands clutched the shawl tighter around her thin shoulders, as though it were her only refuge. Beneath it, her clothes-an old kurta and loose pajama-were faded and frayed. The fabric no longer had warmth, but she held onto it all the same.

The sharp click of a lock echoed through the basement door. She froze. Her breath stilled.

Metal scraped against metal, and the door creaked open. A shadow fell across the stairs.

"Uth ja, nalayak. Soch mat, warna kheench kar nikalunga."
(Get up, useless girl. Don't make me drag you out.)

His name was Raghav Sharma-a man whose presence carried only cruelty. Every night, he locked her away like an unwanted animal, and every morning, he released her only to serve.

She rose instantly, movements quiet and careful, as though her body itself had learned to erase its presence. Her soft bare feet touched the cold cement floor, and she moved toward the stairs.

Raghav Sharma stood at the top, thick moustache shadowing his frown, newspaper tucked under his arm. His eyes scanned her like one might look at a rat. He didn't wait for her, only turned away with a grunt.

Head bowed, face hidden beneath her shawl, she ascended the steps and slipped right after her father without a word.

The house above was silent still, its rooms heavy with slumber. She moved like a shadow, gliding into the kitchen.

There, her hands worked quickly. She kneaded dough, lit the stove, chopped vegetables-all in silence, all without faltering. She cooked for them the way she always had, though she would never eat with them. The smells of parathas, boiling tea, and spiced curry soon filled the air.

Before the first door upstairs creaked open, that girl placed the steaming dishes on the dining table. Plates, glasses, cutlery-arranged with perfect care.

Her shawl slipped slightly as she leaned forward, but she quickly tugged it back into place. She could not risk her sister's wrath.

Her sister, Kavya Sharma, detested the sight of her face.

'chupa isse'
(Hide it)

she would spit, her eyes filled with disgust.

'apni shakal dubaara mat dikhana mujhe. Ghin aati hai mujhe'
(Don't show me your face again. It disgust me.)

And so she obeyed. Always.

As the clatter of footsteps stirred upstairs, she hurried. Her heart pounded. She knew she couldn't be here when they came down.

Silently, she slipped away from the dining table and darted into the storage room, crouching low behind stacked crates. There, in the shadows, she would wait-listening to their voices, their laughter, their demands.

Her world existed in silence and in hiding. To be seen was to be punished. To be heard was to suffer.

From the storage room, she crouched low, clutching the ends of her shawl tighter around her face. Her ears strained at the creak of doors opening upstairs.

Footsteps. Voices.

Her family.

The first to descend was her sister, Kavya Sharma-dressed in her crisp college salwar suit, her hair glossy, lips painted. She wrinkled her nose the moment she saw the steaming plates on the table.

"Kam se kam khana theek se bana diya hai?"
(At least you managed to cook properly this time?)

Kavya muttered, sliding into a chair.

Her brother, Aman Sharma, followed soon after, yawning and stretching before grabbing a chair. He laughed as he saw the food.

"Arey, dekh Kavya, aaj ke parathe jaley toh nahi hain! Waah, kamini ne kamal kar diya."
(Look, Kavya, today the parathas aren't burnt! Wow, the bitch did something right.)

That girl's fingers dug into her palms where she hid, but her face remained expressionless. She had learned long ago that reacting to their words only made things worse.

Her mother, Suman Sharma, walked in next, dressed in a bright sari, gold bangles clinking at her wrists. She didn't even glance at the food.

"Kavya, Aman-jaldi khao. Mujhe apni dost ke ghar jaana hai. Tumhare papa bhi kaam ke liye nikalne wale hain."
(Kavya, Aman-eat quickly. I have to go to my friend's house. Your father is leaving for work too.)

Finally, heavy footsteps thudded on the stairs-Raghav Sharma.
Her heart sank deeper at the sound.

Raghav sat at the head of the table, glaring at the food as though it had personally offended him.

"Umeed toh chhod di thi main is gawaar se, lekin lagta hai aaj pehli baar dhang ka nashta banaya hai."
(I had given up hope from that illiterate bitch, but looks like for the first time she cooked something edible today.)

The family ate noisily, chatting among themselves as though that girl didn't exist-because to them, she didn't.

When breakfast was over, Kavya grabbed her school bag, Aman slung his over his shoulder, and both left with hurried goodbyes to their mother.

"Papa, ja raha hu main" Aman said.
(Dad, I'm leaving.)

"Haan haan, bhaag yahan se,"
(Yeah yeah, get lost.)

Raghav grunted, folding his newspaper under his arm.

Soon after, Suman adjusted her pallu and prepared to leave. She turned to her husband.

"Ghar lock kar dena. Mujhe nahi chahiye woh ladki idhar-udhar ghoome."
(Lock the house. I don't want that girl roaming around.)

Raghav smirked cruelly.

"Chinta mat kar. Woh suar ka bachcha yeh deewar bhi paar nahi kar sakti."
(Don't worry. That pig can't even cross these walls.)

With that, the heavy bolt of the main door clicked shut. Keys rattled. Silence fell.

That girl waited. Waited until she was sure the last footsteps had faded. Only then did she slowly crawl out from the storage room.

The shawl slipped slightly, revealing the edge of her pale cheek, but she pulled it back hurriedly.

Her eyes flicked to the table. Plates smeared with oil, half-eaten parathas, spilled chutney.

Quietly, like a shadow, she began clearing everything.

She carried the plates to kitchen, put all the leftovers in a separate plate and put it on the kitchen counter, when to suno with the plates, rolling up her sleeves. Her thin wrists looked almost skeletal as she scrubbed at the greasy dishes. The soapy water turned cold quickly, but she didn't flinch.

Once the dishes were done, she moved to the laundry, gathering the heap of dirty clothes Kavya had left scattered on the floor. The scent of sweat and perfume clung to the fabric, but she washed them carefully, wringing them out with practiced movements.

She dusted every corner of the house, wiped the floors, and folded clothes into neat stacks-her body moving automatically, without pause, without thought.

This was her life.
The walls of this house, her prison. The locks on the doors, her chains.

The outside world didn't even know she existed.

The house was quiet now, heavy with the silence that always followed once her family left.

To anyone else, such silence might have felt peaceful. To her, it was both relief and loneliness.

She moved swiftly from one chore to another, her shawl slipping down her frail shoulders as she worked. Dusting shelves, scrubbing the bathroom tiles until her fingers ached, sweeping corners that no one even noticed. Her hands were raw, her nails broken, but she kept moving.

When she returned to the kitchen, her stomach growled softly. The smell of fried parathas still lingered in the air, and her eyes fell on the plate on the kitchen counter.

There were scraps left behind-a half-eaten paratha from Aman's plate, a few spoonfuls of curry Kavya had left untouched, cold tea in a steel glass.

She hesitated, listening carefully. No sound of keys, no footsteps. They were gone.

Her fingers shook as she gathered the leftovers, glancing toward the door as though someone might catch her. She crouched by the counter and quickly ate, tearing the paratha into tiny pieces, dipping them into the cold curry.

The food was stale, oily, but to her, it was enough. Sometimes, the only food she ate in a day were these scraps.

When her hunger dulled, she washed her hands and set the plates aside.

Her chores complete for now, she wandered into the hallway. Her eyes drifted toward the single window at the end of the corridor.

It was locked, bolted with iron bars, but there was a tiny crack where the wood had splintered near the frame. Just enough for a sliver of light.

She walked to it slowly, her bare feet soundless on the floor. Standing on tiptoe, she pressed her face to the crack.

A patch of blue sky.

Her lips parted slightly, her breath catching. The sight of it-it was her secret comfort. A forbidden treasure.

She could see the tops of trees swaying, their green leaves glittering in sunlight. She imagined the feel of the breeze, the warmth of the sun, the smell of the soil after rain.

Her heart ached, her chest tightening with longing. She had never stepped outside, but in her mind, she dreamed.

'Kaisi hogi... bahar ki duniya?'
(What must the outside world be like?)

Her thoughts were silent whispers, words she dared not speak.

'Kya wahan log alag hote hain? Acche hote hain?'
(Are people out there different? Are they kind?)

What would it feel like to stand beneath it?
What would the air smell like if not of dust and detergent?
Would it be warm? Would it be cold?

She didn't know. She had never been allowed to know.

Her lips moved silently. Not words-never words. But inside her mind, she spoke.

'ek din.... shayad...'

(One day... maybe...)

The thought frightened her. Hope was dangerous. She pulled the shawl tighter, as though smothering her own daring.

Her reflection in the glass looked back at her-pale skin stretched over sharp bones, dark hair tangled, eyes too big for her thin face. She looked younger than her eighteen years, like a fragile child.

She clutched her shawl tighter, pulling it over her head again. Her sister's words echoed in her ears:

'Mera din kharab ho jaata hai teri shakal dekh ke.'
(My whole day gets ruined if I see your face.)

Samaira turned away from the window, her heart shrinking.

But still, for those few stolen minutes, she had seen the sky. And in her silent world, that was enough to keep her breathing.

The house was silent again.
It was always silent when they were gone, and in that silence, she found the only fragments of safety she ever knew.

The day passed in silence. She scrubbed, folded, swept, washed. She existed in the house like a shadow-working, hiding, never seen.

By evening, the air shifted. The sun dipped low, the sky turning orange. Doors creaked. Voices filled the halls again.

Her family had returned.

And so, the cycle began again.

She moved quickly into the kitchen, cooking dinner before anyone asked. Kneading, frying, boiling, stirring. The smells of dal, sabzi, and fresh rotis filled the air.

Voices drifted from the living room.

"Kavya, homework kar le pehle."
(Kavya, finish your homework first.)

"Aman, kitna din aur fail hoga? Kabhi toh padhaai kar le."
(Aman, how many more times will you fail? Study for once.)

"Shor mat karo, mujhe thakaan ho rahi hai."
(Stop the noise, I'm tired.)

She worked faster, heart thudding. The footsteps would come soon.

Plates arranged. Bowls filled. Water poured.

As soon as she heard the creak of a chair, she slipped away. Darted into the storage room. Curled into herself, shawl pulled high, heart pounding in her ears.

From there, she listened.

"Nashta se better hai yeh,"
(This is better than breakfast.)

Raghav muttered, tearing into the food.

Kavya laughed.

"Bas, isi layak hai. Chup-chaap kitchen mein khaana bnati rahe. Na mooh dikhaye, na awaaz nikale."
(That's all she's good for. Silently cooking in the kitchen. No showing her face, no speaking.)

Aman smirked.

"Sahi kaha. Aisi hi rehni chahiye usse-jaise bhoot."
(True. She should stay like this-like a ghost.)

Their laughter echoed in her ears.

And in the shadows of the storage room, curled into herself, she trembled.

Not because of their words-those she had long since absorbed. But because she feared even being noticed. To be seen was punishment. To be heard was suffering.

So she stayed silent. Always silent.

The sound of spoons against plates slowly dulled, fading into the clatter of steel glasses being pushed aside. From her cramped hiding spot in the storage room, she listened-every muscle tense, every breath shallow.

Dinner was ending.

Her father's heavy voice rumbled first.

"Bas, ho gaya. Kal subah ka nashta ready hona chahiye waqt pe."
(Enough. Tomorrow's breakfast better be ready on time.)

Her mother answered, tired yet sharp.

"Jaldi khao, Raghav."
(Eat quickly, Raghav.)

Aman yawned, pushing back his chair.

"Main sone ja raha hoon. Kal subah class hai."
(I'm going to sleep. I've got class tomorrow.)

"Class ya ladkiyan?"
(Class or girls?)

Kavya teased with a smirk.

Their laughter echoed, and then the sound of chairs scraping against the floor filled the dining room. Footsteps moved across the house, doors opening, then shutting one by one.

Silence.

Only then did she dare to emerge.

Slowly, her thin frame crept out from the storage room, shawl pulled tightly around her face. She stood for a moment, staring at the plates scattered across the dining table, her eyes reflecting the dim yellow of the tube-light above.

The food was gone. Grease clung to steel. A half-eaten roti lay torn in the corner of one plate. A smear of dal dripped down onto the tablecloth.

She swallowed hard and moved forward.

Her bare feet padded softly against the floor, her steps careful, controlled, silent. Every sound-the clink of a plate, the splash of water-she performed with exaggerated caution, terrified that one wrong noise would summon anger from behind closed doors.

In the kitchen, she stacked the dirty dishes into the sink. The water was cold, biting against her frail fingers as she filled the basin. She scrubbed with intensity, hands working swiftly over the greasy steel plates.

Soap bubbles foamed, rising and bursting under the dim light. Each burst left behind silence-a silence she had lived in her whole life.

Her hands moved until every plate gleamed. She rinsed them thrice, rubbed them with the old rag, and placed them neatly in their place on the shelf.

Then came the glasses. The oily pans. The spoons. The serving bowls crusted with dried dal. Each one scrubbed until spotless.

She wiped down the counters, washed the stained tablecloth, and wrung it tightly, droplets scattering onto her kurta. Her thin arms trembled with the effort, but she did not stop.

The kitchen floor was next. She filled the bucket, dipped the old rag, and scrubbed-back and forth, back and forth-until her palms burned.

By the time she finished, the kitchen was spotless. Not a crumb, not a stain, not a sign that anyone had eaten there at all.

She looked around first, her heart thumping against her chest loudly in fear that someone might be watching, that if baba saw me here, he might just kill me with mercy.

She looked around properly for multiple times, after being completely sure that there was no one, she breathed it a trembling sigh barely about a whisper, too afraid to even sigh loudly, because she feared that maybe if she sighed loudly, someone might hear and baba..... Baba will surely come and punish her.

Only then did she allow herself a glance toward the small crack in the window. The night sky peeked back-dark, scattered with stars.

Her eyes softened. For a moment, just a moment, her lips curved into something that resembled longing.

She pressed her forehead against the cool wall, breathing slowly, silently speaking in her mind.

'agar main.... bas ek baar... raat ko chu pau'

(If I could... just once... touch the night...)

But hope was dangerous. She pulled away quickly, her shawl slipping down her shoulder. She tugged it back immediately, panic tightening her chest, though no one was watching.

Her stomach groaned faintly. The little scraps she had stolen earlier had long burned away. She pressed her palm against her belly, willing the ache to quiet itself.

After her work was done, she glanced toward the corridor. The house was silent. Every door was closed. No voices carried through.

Carefully, she padded across the hall, each step measured. She moved toward the basement door, the one place that was hers, though it was no home.

The basement stairs creaked faintly under her weight. She froze, her breath halting, her heart hammering as though the sound might wake the entire house.

She waited. Counted in her head. One. Two. Three.

Silence.

She descended quickly after that, pulling the door shut behind her. The bulb flickered, casting its eerie shadows across the racks of rusted junk. The torn mat waited in its corner.

She curled onto it, drawing her shawl tight around her small body, knees pressed against her chest.

Above, faintly, she heard the sound she knew too well-the jingling of keys.

Clink.

The bolt of the main door.

Clunk.

The sound of the house being locked from the outside.

That was always how the day ended. With her prison sealed, with her existence erased.

Her breathing slowed. Her eyelids grew heavy.

The basement smelled of dust, metal, and damp earth. Yet as her body gave way to exhaustion, she surrendered to it.

Sleep came not as comfort, but as escape.

The next morning came.

The cycle repeated.

The faint buzz of the bulb. The scrape of the lock turning. The groan of the door.

"Uth ja, nalayak."
(Get up, useless.)

The voice was the same. The command the same. The fear the same.

Her body rose. Her shawl tightened around her. Her bare feet met the cold floor once more.

And silently, she began again.