THE SOUND OF UNFINISHED ARGUMENTS
Final Arc: The Night That Refused to End
1
I stood outside my house for nine minutes and forty-three seconds before ringing the bell.
I counted.
Because counting was easier than feeling.
The yellow paint on the gate had faded. The bougainvillea Ma planted years ago had grown wild, climbing over the balcony like it was trying to escape the house.
Nothing had changed.
And everything had.
I pressed the bell.
The sound echoed inside like a memory knocking.
Footsteps approached.
The door opened.
Ma stood there holding an agarbatti in one hand.
For three seconds, she didn't react. She just stared, as if her brain refused to believe her eyes.
The incense stick slipped from her fingers and burned the floor.
"Meher…" she whispered.
Her voice cracked into pieces.
Then she grabbed me.
Not gently.
Not cautiously.
She clutched me like she was afraid I would dissolve if she loosened her grip.
I could feel her heart beating violently against my cheek.
"You're alive… you're alive… you're alive…" she kept repeating, like she was chanting a prayer she didn't trust God to remember.
Behind her, Papa stood frozen near the dining table.
He didn't move immediately.
He looked terrified.
Like he wasn't sure if touching me would make me disappear again.
2
The house smelled exactly the same.
Burnt cumin.
Jasmine smoke.
Unfinished conversations.
Ma kept touching my face, my hair, my shoulders — like she was confirming I was made of flesh and not grief.
"Where were you?" she asked, voice trembling.
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
"I… I can't tell you everything yet," I said.
Pain flashed across her face.
Papa finally walked toward us slowly.
"Are you hurt?" he asked quietly.
"No."
That was technically true.
My wounds were places doctors couldn't stitch.
Dinner was silent.
Ma placed food in front of me as if feeding me was her way of apologizing for every argument we ever had.
Papa watched both of us like he was studying a fragile treaty between two countries that had declared war too many times.
And through the window, I felt it.
That sensation again.
Being watched.
3
I excused myself and walked toward the balcony casually.
The streetlights flickered under the humid evening sky.
And across the road, parked beneath a neem tree, stood a black car.
Engine running.
Headlights off.
My stomach tightened.
The window rolled down slowly.
I couldn't see the face inside.
But I knew.
Shaila.
She didn't wave.
She didn't signal.
She just sat there like patience wearing human skin.
Then the car drove away.
4
I didn't tell my parents immediately.
Because panic spreads faster than truth.
But that night, I locked my bedroom door for the first time in my life.
Sleep refused to come.
At 2:13 AM, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I answered.
"You always preferred yellow," Shaila said softly.
Ice crawled down my spine.
"How did you—"
"I raised a daughter once," she interrupted. "I notice colors. They carry emotions."
"Leave me alone," I whispered.
"Come back," she said gently. "You know you're not healed."
"I don't need healing from you."
"You needed it from someone," she replied.
The call ended.
5
The police arrived the next morning.
Ma had already filed a reappearance statement.
Inspector Rathod was assigned to the case — sharp eyes, tired posture, voice trained to sound calm around trauma.
He asked questions carefully.
"Do you remember where you were kept?"
"Yes."
"Can you identify people involved?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you contact authorities earlier?"
I hesitated.
Because the real answer was complicated.
Because Shaila never chained me.
She studied me.
Controlled me slowly.
Manipulated the parts of me that already felt broken.
And explaining emotional captivity is harder than explaining physical captivity.
"I was scared," I finally said.
He nodded like he understood more than he showed.
6
The police raided the bungalow two days later.
It was empty.
No residents.
No files.
No Shaila.
Only abandoned therapy rooms and wiped computers.
But they found something else.
Photographs hidden behind a false wall.
Dozens of girls.
Missing persons from across cities.
All smiling nervously at cameras.
All labeled with psychological notes.
My hands trembled as I flipped through them.
Then I froze.
One photograph dropped from my fingers.
A girl with familiar eyes.
Familiar smile.
Familiar dimple.
Ma gasped behind me.
"Meher… that's—"
"Aarohi," I whispered.
But Ma shook her head violently.
"That's not Aarohi."
Her voice broke.
"That's Shaila's daughter."
7
The truth spilled out slowly, like poison leaking through cracks.
Years ago, Shaila had a daughter named Aarohi.
She disappeared during a school trip.
The case was never solved.
Shaila's marriage collapsed.
Her sanity followed.
According to police files, she became obsessed with psychological rehabilitation and grief therapy.
But grief had twisted her purpose.
She started finding girls who felt emotionally abandoned.
Girls standing between broken families.
Girls who reminded her of the daughter she lost.
She didn't just rescue them.
She tried to rebuild them.
Into versions that would never leave her.
8
The conspiracy ran deeper.
The bungalow wasn't illegal on paper.
It was registered as a private emotional recovery center.
Multiple influential donors funded it quietly.
Why?
Inspector Rathod revealed it three nights later.
"These donors include parents who wanted their 'difficult' daughters corrected discreetly," he said.
My chest tightened.
Corrected.
The word felt like acid.
"Do you have names?" Papa asked sharply.
Rathod hesitated.
"Yes."
He slid a file across the table.
I opened it.
And the world shattered.
9
Two signatures stared back at me.
Arvind Roy.
Ananya Roy.
The room went silent.
I looked up slowly.
Papa's face had drained of color.
Ma collapsed into the chair behind her like gravity had suddenly increased.
"This… this is wrong," Papa whispered.
Ma started crying immediately.
"Meher, listen to me—"
I stepped back.
"You sent me there?" I asked, my voice barely existing.
"No!" Ma sobbed. "We thought it was counseling! Your father suggested it years ago—"
Papa shook his head violently.
"I only donated to mental health programs after our divorce. I didn't know it was connected to her!"
Inspector Rathod spoke quietly.
"Shaila specifically targeted families who had donated. She studied their children's emotional patterns."
The room felt suffocating.
"So she knew me before I met her," I whispered.
"Yes," he said.
10
That night, I left the house again.
Not to run.
To think.
I sat on the terrace, staring at the sky.
My entire life suddenly felt scripted by people who loved me and people who lost someone like me.
Both had tried to fix me.
Nobody had asked who I wanted to become.
My phone buzzed.
One message.
Unknown number.
A video.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
The footage showed Kabir.
Alive.
Standing inside a dimly lit room.
He looked straight into the camera.
"If you're watching this, it means she hasn't stopped," he said.
Then he whispered something that made my blood freeze.
"She's not alone."
The video ended.
11 — Final Twist
The next morning, Inspector Rathod traced the video location.
It led to a psychiatric research facility on the outskirts of the city.
Officially closed.
Unofficially funded by multiple donors.
Including one name repeated several times in confidential files.
A board member.
Primary sponsor.
Founding consultant.
The name echoed in my skull when Rathod spoke it.
"Dr. Arvind Roy."
Papa dropped the glass he was holding.
"No," he whispered.
"Yes," Rathod said.
"The facility was originally designed by you ten years ago. Your therapy model formed its foundation."
Papa looked at me like he was drowning.
"I never knew she would misuse it… I was trying to help people heal…"
Ma stared at him with horror.
"You created the blueprint that trapped our daughter," she said.
Before anyone could speak again, my phone rang.
Shaila.
I answered slowly.
"I always admired your father," she said warmly.
"He understood broken minds better than most people."
My voice shook.
"Where are you?"
A pause.
Then she spoke softly.
"Where your father's work began."
The call ended.
FINAL SCENE — CLIFFHANGER ENDING
Police sirens screamed through the empty highway as we rushed toward the abandoned facility.
Storm clouds gathered again.
Rain began falling like the sky was repeating history.
Inside the building, emergency lights flickered.
Doors creaked open one by one.
Photographs lined the corridor walls.
Hundreds of girls.
Hundreds of lives rewritten.
At the end of the hallway stood Shaila.
Calm.
Smiling.
Beside her…
Kabir.
Standing completely still.
Eyes empty.
Like he was there but not alive inside.
Shaila tilted her head slightly.
"Welcome home, Meher," she said.
Then she looked at my father.
"And welcome back, Doctor."
The emergency lights flickered again.
And Kabir slowly turned toward me…
…and smiled in a way that didn't belong to him anymore.
END