The underground air was heavy, damp, and sour, clinging to her lungs as if it did not want to let go.

Darkness gathered in the corners of the cell, swallowing her small form as she curled tighter against the cold wall, clutching her shawl like a lifeline.

Every sound outside the bars—footsteps, laughter, the clash of keys—made her body jolt with terror.

Her wide eyes darted like a frightened animal’s, searching for escape where there was none.

She had never known freedom, but even so, this new prison felt worse.

In her house, there had at least been a sliver of sky, a crack in the window where she could breathe a moment of borrowed hope.

Here, the sky had vanished.

Here, the ceiling pressed low and heavy, suffocating her dreams before they could even form.

But then… a voice.

Soft, hesitant, but warm.

“Aapka naam kya hai, betu?”
(What is your name, dear?)

Her head snapped up. Her heart lurched. For a moment she thought she had imagined it, that her mind, fractured by fear, had conjured a gentler hallucination to protect her.

But no—there, in the same cell, only a few feet away, sat another girl.

Older.

Maybe twelve, though she did not understand numbers well enough to know.

The girl had tired eyes, dark circles beneath them, hair tangled but face still carrying a softness untouched by cruelty.

She looked worn, beaten by life, but not broken. And her voice—her voice carried something she had never heard before.

Kindness.

The word itself had no meaning to her, but she felt it. It seeped into her skin, making her both tremble harder and ache in ways she couldn’t describe.

The girl smiled faintly.

“Kya aap sun rahi ho hame?”
(Are you listening to me?)

Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her throat was locked, as if sealed by years of silence.

She clutched her shawl tighter, pressing her back harder against the damp stone wall. Her heart thudded painfully, fear rising sharp and wild.

The girl tilted her head, studying her.

“Daro mat, hum aapko kuchh nahi karenge.”
(Don’t be scared, I won’t hurt you.)

But that only made her tremble more. No one had ever spoken like that. No one had ever said they wouldn’t hurt her—because hurt was all she had ever known.

Every voice in her life had carried cruelty, contempt, rage.

This softness felt wrong.

Alien.

Dangerous.

Her eyes filled with tears.

Her tiny frame shook.

The girl leaned forward slowly, cautious, like one might approach a wounded bird.

“Mera naam Maira hai.”
(My name is Maira.)

The name hung in the stale air, gentle and alive.

Maira’s smile faltered, but she tried again.

“Aur aapka? Aapki umar kya hai?”
(And yours? How old are you?)

The question hung in the air.

It stabbed sharper than any whip.

It stabbed deeper than any insult have ever did.

Her’s lips parted, but nothing came. Her throat locked. Her mind… it began to spin.

Inside her mind, something broke open.

Names.

Voices.

Screams.

They came rushing back, one after another, overlapping until she couldn’t tell which was real.

'Nalayak!'
(Useless!)

'Suar ki aulaad!'
(Swine’s child!)

'Bojh!'
(Burden!)

Each word slammed into her skull, not with the sting of insult—because she did not know what an insult was—but with the weight of identity.

These were the only names she had ever been given.

These were what people had always called her.

Did that mean one of them was hers?

Were all of them hers?

Which one should she tell this strange, kind girl?

Her chest began to burn. Her small hands clutched at her shawl, twisting the fabric until her knuckles turned white.

She searched Maira’s eyes desperately, as if they might tell her which 'name' was the right one. But there was only softness there, only patience.

Confusion flooded her. Panic followed. Her heart hammered in her ears. She shook her head—quickly, violently—because she didn’t know.

She didn’t know which name belonged to her, if any.

She didn’t know what to say.

Her lips quivered. Her head shook violently.

She didn’t know.

She didn’t know how old she was. She didn’t know her name. No one had ever told her. No one had ever celebrated her birth, counted her years, or marked her existence.

She was nothing.

Her trembling hands lifted slightly, clutching the air as if trying to form words, trying to explain.

But then she dropped them back to her lap, defeated. Her shoulders hunched, and her face crumpled into silent grief.

Maira’s eyes softened, sadness flickering in them.

To Maira, that shake of the head carried only one meaning: that the girl had no name at all.

She leaned closer, whispering,

“Aapka naam nahi hai?”
(You don’t have a name?)

She froze. Her chest heaved. Slowly, slowly, she shook her head.

She, trembling, let her head drop low. Tears brimmed, not from shame of having no name—but from the impossible chaos of having too many, none of which felt like hers.

Her eyes brimmed, her lip trembled, and she lowered her face —as if not having a proper name was her fault. As if she had failed at even existing.

Maira’s throat tightened. She reached out, very carefully, her hand, gentle and steady, came to rest on the girl’s shaking shoulder.

The touch made her flinch violently, her body jerking back against the wall.

Terror burst in her chest—touch had always meant pain.

But Maira did not hurt her. The hand stayed gentle.

Warm.

Steady.

For a long moment, the nameless girl just stared, eyes wide, chest heaving.

Her small body quivered, breath shallow, but then, slowly, hesitantly, she let the touch remain.

Maira gave a soft smile.

“Phir hum aapko naam dungi. Agar aapko theek lage.”
(Then I’ll give you a name. If that’s okay with you.)

The girl blinked rapidly, tears spilling over. She did not understand why her chest ached so much at those words, why her throat burned.

No one had ever offered her anything—certainly not something as precious as a name.

Maira thought for a moment, then whispered,

“Aapki aankhon mein dar hai, lekin us dar ke neeche… ek roshni bhi hai. Aapki khamoshi ke peeche bhi ek awaaz hai. Hum aapko… ‘Noor’ bulaenge.”
(There is fear in your eyes, but beneath that fear… there is also light. Behind your silence, there is still a voice. I’ll call you… ‘Noor.’)

Noor.

Light.

She—Noor—stared at her, heart pounding.

A word.

A sound meant just for her.

Something she could be.

Something she could have.

Her lip quivered, and for the first time in her life, a faint, trembling sob escaped her throat.

Not loud.

Barely more than a whisper.

But real.

Maira’s eyes filled with tears. She squeezed Noor’s shoulder gently.

“Theek hai, betu. Ab aap Noor ho. Hamari Noor.”
(It’s okay, dear. Now you are Noor. My Noor.)

And in that dungeon of shadows and screams, a seed of light was planted.

Days blurred into each other. The traffickers came and went, keys jangling, boots stomping, voices dripping with cruelty. They brought scraps of stale bread, watery dal in rusted tins, throwing them into the cells as if feeding animals.

Screams echoed from other cells.

Sometimes pleading, sometimes anger, sometimes fading into silence.

Noor pressed her shawl over her ears, curled into herself, but the sounds seeped in anyway, etching themselves into her soul.

Maira stayed close. She shared her food when Noor was too terrified to move.

She spoke softly, telling Noor little stories of her village, of fields and festivals, of laughter and rivers. Noor listened, eyes wide, unable to imagine such worlds but clinging to the images like fragile treasures.

Sometimes, traffickers dragged girls out.

Kicking, screaming, or silent like Noor.

Sometimes they came back—broken, limping, their eyes hollow. Sometimes they never came back at all.

Noor’s body shook every time the footsteps stopped near their cell. Her fingers dug into her shawl until threads tore. Her breath came in shallow gasps, heart pounding so violently she thought it might kill her.

And then one day—

The footsteps stopped. The key rattled in their lock.

“Isko nikalo.”
(Take her out.)

A rough hand shot through the bars, pointing at Noor.

Her world froze. Her eyes widened, her body locked. She shook her head wildly, tears spilling instantly, pressing herself flat against the wall. Her chest convulsed with silent sobs.

Before she could be pulled, Maira shot forward, grabbing Noor protectively.

“Nahi! Usse chhod do. Hum chalte hain.”
(No! Leave her. I’ll go.)

The trafficker paused, glaring at her.

“Hatt!”
(Move!)

But Maira clung to Noor’s arm, refusing to let go.

“Bachi hai woh! Samajh mein nahi aata tumhe?”
(She’s just a child! Don’t you understand?)

The trafficker’s face twisted with rage. His hand shot out, striking Maira across the face with such force that her head whipped sideways.

Noor’s silent scream tore through her throat as she lurched forward, trying to reach Maira, but the man shoved her back with brutal ease.

The trafficker sneered.

“Bahut shauk hai tujhe, haan?”
(So you’re eager, huh?)

And then the beating began.

Fists, boots, blows, whips, belts raining down on Maira as Noor watched in frozen horror.

Each strike landed with a sickening sound—thud, crack, grunt. Saira curled, tried to shield herself, but they kicked harder, angrier, until blood stained the dirt.

Noor’s mouth opened, but no scream came. Only air, only sobs that tore her chest apart.

Her tiny fists pressed against her own head as if to block the sight, but her wide eyes could not close.

She shook violently, heart tearing in two as the only person who had ever shown her kindness was crushed before her eyes.

Maira gasped through the blood, her voice hoarse, whispering,

“Noor… daro mat.”
(Noor… don’t be afraid.)

And then another blow silenced her.

The traffickers spat, left her bleeding on the floor, and slammed the cell shut.

Noor crawled to Maira’s broken body, sobbing silently, shaking uncontrollably.

Her small hands hovered over Maira’s wounds, too scared to touch, too desperate not to.

Tears streamed down her face, falling onto Maira’s blood.

Her chest felt like it was splitting open.

Her lungs screamed for air. She rocked back and forth, clutching her shawl, staring at the broken form beside her, her mind screaming one endless question—

'K-kyu? Aisa kyu hota hai? Humare saath hi aisa kyu hota? Hame chune wala har haath pithe dard kyu chod jata hai?'
(Why? Why does this happen? Why does this happen to me? Why does every hand that touches me leave pain behind?)

And in that darkness, Noor shattered more completely than she ever had before.

The days bled into each other inside that underground prison. Noor no longer knew when it was morning or night.

The air was always damp, the stone always cold, the darkness always the same.

Only the footsteps of the traffickers, the clatter of keys, the scraping of iron doors told her time was moving.

Every sound outside the bars sent her heart racing, her body jerking upright like a hunted animal.

Her small hands clutched her shawl tighter every time boots echoed down the hallway.

The fabric was worn thin now, threads unraveling, but to her it was still a shield — the only thing she had ever owned, the only thing that belonged to her.

And Maira.

Maira was the only warmth in this place. Noor clung to her presence the way a drowning child clings to driftwood.

At first, Noor had trembled even at Maira’s gentle touch, her soft voice. But days of whispered words, of food being split, of a hand resting lightly on her head when fear choked her — all of it had slowly carved a fragile trust inside Noor’s bruised heart.

Maira always tried to make her feel seen. She called her Noor. Every time she said it, Noor’s chest squeezed painfully, as if she still couldn’t believe she had something so precious as a name.

And Maira spoke it like it meant something.

Like Noor was not invisible, not nothing, but someone.

Yet the world outside their cell reminded her otherwise.

The traffickers came at odd hours, sometimes with food, sometimes with nothing but rage.

They shoved metal bowls inside the cell — stale bread, watery dal that smelled sour, sometimes only a handful of grains crawling with insects.

Noor would shrink back, waiting until Maira urged her forward. Maira always gave Noor the better portion, pretending she wasn’t hungry.

Noor’s small hands would tremble as she picked at the scraps, forcing herself to eat while her stomach twisted in both hunger and fear.

Sometimes, screams echoed from the corridor. Raw, jagged screams that made Noor clamp her hands over her ears, burying her face into Maira’s side.

She didn’t understand what was happening, only that every scream meant pain, and every silence afterward meant someone had been broken.

But the worst were the visits.

They were different from the traffickers. These strangers came in groups, dressed better, smelling of perfumes or smoke, their eyes gleaming like predators.

They didn’t carry the heavy boots of jailers — they carried something colder. They would walk slowly past the row of cells, pointing.

Sometimes they murmured to the traffickers, sometimes they laughed.

And every time a finger pointed at a girl, that girl would be dragged out.

Sometimes crying, sometimes silent, sometimes clinging to the bars until their fingers bled.

They never came back.

Noor didn’t understand it. She didn’t know the word buyers. She didn’t know the meaning of being sold. But she felt it in her bones — that those who were taken were gone forever.

The first time she saw it happen, she had frozen in horror, her breath shattering in her chest as two men pointed at the cell across from theirs.

The girl inside had screamed, begged, her voice hoarse. She had clawed at the bars, kicked, bitten, until the traffickers slammed her down and dragged her away.

Her screams echoed long after her body was gone.

Noor had curled into herself, sobbing silently, her tiny frame rocking against the wall. The thought stabbed her mind — someday, it will be me. Someday, their finger will point to me.

But then Maira’s arm had come around her, pulling her close, whispering,

“Chup ho jao, Noor. Hum hain na. Kuch nahi hoga.”
(Be quiet, Noor. I’m here. Nothing will happen.)

Noor had looked up, eyes wide and wet. Maira’s face had been pale, her jaw tight, but her voice had tried to stay calm for Noor’s sake.

And every time those strangers came again, Maira would position herself in front of Noor, pushing her gently behind her body, shielding her with every inch of herself.

Sometimes Noor would bury her face into Maira’s back, trembling so hard she thought her bones would break. Her fingers clutched Maira’s dress, desperate not to be seen.

Maira would straighten, staring hard at the ground, trying to make them ignore her cell.

It never worked completely. Once, a man’s hand had pointed at Noor. Her blood had turned to ice, her knees buckling as her vision blurred.

She had pressed herself harder into Maira’s back, tears soaking through the fabric, her chest convulsing with silent cries.

Maira had stepped forward, voice cracking as she shouted,

“Nahi! Usse nahi! Hume le jao, hum chalenge!”
(No! Not her! Take me, I’ll go!)

The traffickers had laughed. The man had shaken his head, moved on, and Noor had collapsed, shivering, sobbing against the floor.

Maira had held her until the tremors subsided, her own face wet with tears.

“Hamari Noor… aapko hum kisi ko chhune nahi dungi.”
(My Noor… I won’t let anyone touch you.)

Life in the cell was not life. It was waiting — waiting for footsteps, waiting for screams, waiting for the day fate would choose them.

Noor had no sense of time.

Only hunger and fear.

Only silence and sobs.

Her world shrank to two things: her shawl and Maira. She wrapped herself in one, leaned against the other.

When she couldn’t sleep, she would stare at Maira’s face, memorizing every line, every blink, as if afraid Maira would vanish too.

Sometimes, in the rare quiet, Maira would whisper stories.

“Hamare gaon mein, barsaat ke dinon mein, mitti ki khushboo aati thi… aur hum sab bachche khelte the khet mein.”
(In my village, during the rainy days, the soil carried a fragrance… and we children would play in the fields.)

Noor would watch her lips move, her wide eyes drinking in the images she couldn’t imagine. She didn’t know what a field was, or rain that brought joy.

But she loved the way Maira’s voice softened, the way her face lit up for a moment, the way her hand sometimes stroked Noor’s hair as she spoke.

For Noor, it was the first time in her life anyone had told her a story not to frighten her, but to soothe her.

And yet, fear never left. Every noise outside the bars made her jolt. Every laugh of the traffickers made her clutch Maira’s arm.

Every visit of strangers sent her heart crashing against her ribs, convinced this was the last moment she would see Maira, or that Maira would see her.

She began to live in constant dread, a trembling bird waiting for the hunter’s hand.

One night, when the corridor was unusually silent, Noor couldn’t sleep. She lay curled against the wall, eyes open, staring into the blackness. Maira, beside her, noticed.

“Kya soch rahi ho, Noor?”
(What are you thinking, Noor?)

Noor’s lips parted, but no words came. She touched her chest, then the bars, then her shawl, her gestures broken, confused. Her eyes filled with tears as she shook her head.

Maira watched her for a long moment, then whispered,

“Darr lag raha hai?”
(Are you afraid?)

Noor’s breath hitched. Her whole body trembled as she nodded.

Again and again.

Her hands pressed against her face as silent sobs shook her frame.

Maira pulled her close, holding her head against her chest.

“Hame bhi darr lagta hai,” she admitted softly. “Lekin aap hamare saath hai. Jab tak hum hain, aap akeli nahi hai.”
(I’m afraid too. But you are with me. As long as I’m here, you’re not alone.)

Noor closed her eyes, clutching the fabric of Maira’s dress with both hands, as if trying to fuse herself into her. Her mind screamed with fear, but beneath it, for the first time, there was something else.

A flicker of safety.

Not much.

Fragile, fleeting.

But real.

And in that underground hell, where screams were louder than dreams, Noor held on to it with all her trembling might.

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