The rain fell steadily over the boarding school that afternoon, turning the playground into a blur of gray and muddy puddles. Children ran across the field with shrieks of laughter, their shoes splashing through water as teachers shouted half-hearted warnings from the corridors.
But Jinni did not join them.
She sat quietly on a wooden bench beside the long window in the hallway, her small legs dangling above the floor. In her hands, she clutched a crumpled sketch she had drawn the night before.
It was a simple drawing—three stick figures standing under a crooked sun.
Ankur.
Urvi.
And herself between them.
She traced the lines again and again with her finger as though doing so might somehow bring them back.
Her once-bright eyes had grown dull in the past weeks. The lively spark that used to dance in them had slowly faded in the cold, unfamiliar halls of the boarding school.
Here, she was just another child.
Another bed.
Another name on a list.
But to her, everything felt wrong. The laughter of other children echoed down the corridor, bouncing off the walls like sounds from another world.
She missed the warmth of Urvi's hugs.
She missed the deep laughter of Ankur.
She missed the evenings when the three of them would sit together talking about the tiniest things that somehow felt enormous to her.
Now those evenings existed only in memory.
And memories, she had learned, could be very lonely places.
The cafeteria was the hardest part of the day.
Rows of children sat together in noisy groups, trading jokes and stories as they ate.
Jinni always sat alone.
Her tray remained mostly untouched as she quietly pushed her food around with a spoon. Sometimes she tried to listen to other children's conversations, pretending for a moment that she belonged there too.
But no one ever noticed her.
And she didn't know how to ask to join them.
At night, the loneliness grew even heavier.
She lay on her narrow bunk bed staring at the ceiling while the dormitory lights dimmed. From different corners of the room came soft sniffles and quiet sobs—other children missing home just as much as she did.
Jinni pulled her blanket over her head and hugged the sketch to her chest.
She had written letters.
So many letters.
To Ankur.
To Urvi.
But none had come back.
Not a single reply.
At first she thought maybe the letters hadn't reached them.
Then she wondered if they were simply too busy.
But as days turned into weeks, a darker thought crept into her mind.
Maybe… they had forgotten her.
The idea settled inside her heart like a heavy stone.
One afternoon, as the rain continued to fall outside, someone noticed her.
Her name was Ishani.
She was a new teacher at the school, gentle and soft-spoken, with kind eyes that seemed to notice things others often missed.
That day, while walking down the corridor, she spotted Jinni sitting alone by the window.
The little girl hadn't moved for a long time.
Curious, Ishani approached and sat down beside her.
The bench creaked softly under their combined weight.
"You like watching the rain?" Ishani asked gently.
Jinni didn't answer.
Her fingers twisted nervously in her lap.
Ishani didn't push.
Instead, she simply stayed there quietly for a few minutes, letting the silence settle comfortably between them.
Eventually, she noticed the crumpled sketch in Jinni's hands.
"Did you draw that?" she asked.
Jinni nodded faintly.
"Who are they?"
The little girl hesitated.
"My… family."
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Ishani felt her chest tighten slightly.
"Do you miss them?"
This time, Jinni nodded harder.
Very slowly, the words began to spill out.
About Ankur.
About Urvi.
About the evenings they used to spend together.
About the letters she kept sending but never received answers to.
Ishani listened without interrupting, her heart aching as the small voice beside her trembled.
When Jinni finally finished, silence returned to the hallway.
Then Ishani smiled softly.
"Jinni," she said gently, "I want to tell you a story."
The girl looked up, curiosity flickering faintly in her tired eyes.
"Once," Ishani began, "there was a little rat named Umru."
Jinni blinked.
"He lived in the house of a kind old woman who loved him very much. She fed him cheese and greens every day. She brushed his fur until it shone and talked to him like he was her best friend."
Jinni listened carefully.
"But the rest of the woman's family didn't care about Umru at all," Ishani continued. "They ignored him. They never played with him or even looked at him."
The rain tapped softly against the windows as she spoke.
"One day, the old woman became very sick and could no longer care for him. Without her, Umru's world became cold and lonely. No one fed him. No one spoke to him."
Jinni's fingers tightened around her drawing.
"So one night," Ishani said softly, "Umru gathered all his courage and escaped his cage. He ran out into the wild forest hoping to find a better life."
Jinni's eyes widened slightly.
"He felt free for the first time," Ishani continued. "Fresh air filled his lungs, and the forest smelled wonderful."
Then her tone shifted.
"But freedom is dangerous too."
Jinni leaned forward.
"One day, a wild cat spotted him."
She gasped quietly.
"The cat chased Umru through the forest. Its claws swiped just inches from his tail. He ran faster than he ever had before."
"And then?"
"Just when the cat was about to catch him," Ishani said with a small smile, "a brave female rat named Ummi appeared."
Jinni's eyes sparkled faintly.
"Ummi was clever. She ran in circles and chattered loudly, confusing the cat and leading it away from Umru."
"Did he escape?" Jinni asked softly.
"He did."
After a moment, Ishani continued.
"Grateful and curious, Umru followed Ummi to her home—a dark sewer beneath the forest."
Jinni wrinkled her nose.
"At first," Ishani laughed gently, "Umru hated it. The walls were slimy, the air smelled awful, and water dripped from the ceiling all the time."
"That sounds horrible," Jinni whispered.
"It did to him too. He missed the warm house and the old woman who cared for him."
"But Ummi was very kind," Ishani said. "She shared her food with him and taught him how to find berries and nuts in the forest."
Day by day, Umru learned to survive.
He and Ummi would gather food together, then sit under small cracks in the sewer where sunlight streamed down.
"At night," Ishani added, "they would walk through the forest and watch the fireflies."
Jinni smiled faintly.
"Umru even started bringing Ummi tiny flowers he found."
"And Ummi gave him the best nuts she could find."
For a moment, the story felt warm.
Gentle.
Happy.
But Ishani's voice slowly grew softer.
"One day," she said quietly, "Umru and Ummi had a terrible fight."
Jinni frowned.
"They argued over a piece of food. Umru became angry and shoved her."
Her voice lowered further.
"Ummi slipped… and fell into the rushing sewer water."
Jinni's smile disappeared.
"The current was too strong," Ishani continued. "Before Umru could save her, she was swept away."
The hallway felt silent except for the rain.
"Umru cried for days," Ishani said softly. "He realized too late that love was more important than anything else."
Jinni's eyes filled with tears.
"He missed Ummi forever… and spent the rest of his life wishing he had never pushed her away."
When the story ended, Jinni's small hand reached for Ishani's.
"I don't want to be alone like Umru," she whispered.
Ishani gently pulled the girl into a hug.
"You won't be," she said softly.
From that day on, Ishani began spending time with her.
She helped Jinni with homework.
She sat beside her during meals.
Sometimes she even drew tiny rabbits in Jinni's notebooks just to make her laugh.
And slowly—very slowly—the little girl began to smile again.
But at night, when the dormitory lights dimmed and everyone else fell asleep, Jinni still pulled her blanket over her head.
She held her drawing close to her chest.
And whispered quietly into the darkness—
"I hope you didn't forget me."