Cold seeped into Aarohi Singh's bones long before memory returned.
The stone beneath her cheek was damp, breathing the chill of some underground hollow. She did not move at once. Stillness had always been her first discipline — learned in Kathak, learned in silence, learned in watching before stepping into rhythm.
A breath.
Another.
The air smelled of rust, stale water, and fear.
Her wrists burned. Rope. Tight. Unforgiving.
Somewhere in the dark, someone whimpered — soft, animal, defeated. Another voice murmured a prayer that broke midway, as though hope itself had been interrupted.
Aarohi opened her eyes.
Nothing.
Only a thickness of black, heavy as velvet, pressing against her sight.
She swallowed. Her lips were cracked. Blood salted her tongue.
Observe. Listen. Endure.
The words formed not as panic, but as habit.
A drip echoed.
Metal scraped.
A girl nearby shifted and sobbed into her own shoulder.
Aarohi inhaled slowly through her nose, steadying the tremor in her chest. Even bound, even thrown like refuse upon stone, she refused to surrender the one thing that remained hers — awareness.
Her ankle brushed another body. Cold. Shivering.
"Are you awake?" she whispered, her voice a thread.
A pause. Then a breathy answer:
"…hm."
Alive.
Relief did not come. Only resolve.
Trigger Flashback
Temple bells.
Clear. Resonant. Golden in the morning air.
Jaipur waking in saffron light.
Her ghungroo tied carefully at her ankles. Guruji correcting the tilt of her chin. Her mother's voice from the courtyard: "Dance with devotion, Aarohi — not perfection."
Sunlight on marble.
Peace.
Then—
Darkness crashed back.
Aarohi's fingers curled against the rope. Testing. Measuring. Patient.
Footsteps echoed faintly above.
Voices followed.
Male.
Indifferent.
A girl to her left began to cry harder.
"Uff… stop," another whispered weakly. "Please…"
"Silence," Aarohi breathed, not harsh but firm. "Save your strength."
Her tone held no authority, yet obedience followed. Even fear recognizes steadiness.
Bootsteps descended metal stairs.
Closer.
Closer.
Aarohi's pulse slowed rather than raced.
If they want fear, they will not have mine.
A bolt clanged.
Metal shrieked.
Light exploded through the darkness as the door swung open.
Several girls gasped. One whimpered, shielding her eyes.
Boots struck the stone — heavy, measured.
Aarohi did not look away.
She forced her eyes to adjust, forced herself to see.
Uniform. Dark. Faces half-shadowed.
One man stopped in front of her and nudged her shoulder with his boot.
"Tsk. This one's awake."
Another voice, bored, carrying a clipboard:
"Number 47 is conscious."
The label struck harder than the rope.
Not a name.
A number.
Something flickered in Aarohi's gaze — not panic, not surrender.
Recognition.
Calculation.
Memory of rhythm.
Even bound feet remember how to strike the earth.
A guard crouched slightly, studying her face.
"Well, well… sharp eyes. Not broken yet."
Aarohi met his stare.
Silence answered him.
The man snorted. "Ridiculous. They all break."
He stood. The boots turned away.
The light remained.
And for the first time, the darkness no longer felt endless.
Because darkness ends where witness begins.
And Aarohi Singh was watching.
The door slammed.
Darkness folded back over them like a burial cloth.
For a moment, no one breathed.
Then the sobbing resumed — thin, fragile, like thread fraying under weight.
Aarohi kept her eyes open.
Darkness was no longer empty.
It had texture.
Weight.
Distance.
Sound.
She drew in a slow breath through her nose.
Moist stone. Iron. Human fear. Damp cloth. Oil.
Someone sniffled two arm-lengths away. Another girl shifted to the right, fabric scraping stone. A chain rattled faintly farther back.
She inhaled again.
Counted.
Measured.
Space revealed itself in echoes.
One pillar… maybe two.
A wall to the left.
A hollow ceiling above.
She exhaled slowly.
Kathak had taught her that rhythm exists even in stillness. That silence has intervals. That space speaks if one listens long enough.
A whisper brushed her ear.
"You shouldn't stare at them like that."
The voice was barely air.
Aarohi turned her head slightly.
"I wasn't staring," she whispered back.
A soft, breathless sound — almost a laugh.
"Hmm… you were."
A pause.
"My name is Meera," the voice said.
Names.
The word struck like a match in darkness.
"I am Aarohi," she answered.
A sharp inhale.
"No names," Meera murmured quickly. "They don't like that."
Aarohi's fingers tightened against the rope.
"They can dislike what they wish."
Meera was silent for several breaths.
Then, quieter:
"They take names first."
Aarohi closed her eyes.
Numbers are easier to erase than names.
She understood.
Somewhere in the chamber, a girl whimpered louder.
"Uff… it hurts…"
"Stay still," another urged weakly.
"I can't… I can't feel my hands…"
Aarohi shifted slightly despite the rope's bite.
"Move your fingers," she whispered. "Slowly. Keep them alive."
A pause.
Then a shaky reply:
"…they're moving."
Relief moved through the darkness like a faint current.
Not hope.
Not yet.
But awareness.
Footsteps thundered above.
Voices drifted through metal grating.
"…shipment delayed—"
"…boss said no mistakes this time…"
"…last batch was useless…"
Laughter.
Crude.
Indifferent.
One voice spat:
"Shameless brats kept crying like we're running a charity."
Another answered with a snort. "Tch. What did they expect? A holiday?"
Bootsteps crossed overhead.
Someone dropped something metal.
Clang.
A girl flinched nearby.
"Argh…"
"Quiet," someone hissed.
Aarohi listened until the voices faded.
Patterns.
Shift rotations.
Weight of steps.
Number of men.
Her pulse remained slow.
They wanted panic.
She offered patience.
Minutes passed.
Or hours.
Time dissolved in darkness.
A drip marked intervals like a broken metronome.
Aarohi pressed her bound wrists subtly against the stone, testing friction. The rope scratched. Fibers resisted. Tight, but not expertly tied.
A possibility.
She stilled again.
Not yet.
Preparation before motion.
Meera whispered again.
"You're not crying."
"No."
"How?"
Aarohi inhaled.
Exhaled.
"I am listening."
Silence.
Then, almost reverent:
"…oh."
From the far end, a harsh voice suddenly barked:
"Shut it! All of you!"
A door above slammed.
Bootsteps descended again.
Metal shrieked.
Light burst in once more.
Several girls cried out.
Aarohi did not.
Three men entered.
One carried a lantern. Another, a ledger. The third chewed something noisily, gaze roaming with bored disdain.
"Tch. Smells worse than yesterday," he muttered.
"Then breathe through your mouth," the ledger man replied dryly.
"Funny. Real hilarious."
The chewing man nudged a girl with his boot. She flinched.
"Up. Inspection."
"I can't—"
"Did I ask?" he snapped. "Move, brat."
He grabbed her arm and hauled her upright. She cried out.
"Ugh, stop whining," he muttered. "Disgusting."
The lantern light swung.
It reached Aarohi.
Paused.
The ledger man stepped closer.
"Forty-seven," he said.
Not loud.
Not bored.
Observing.
The chewing guard glanced over. "This one? Still got attitude?"
"She hasn't begged," the ledger man said.
He crouched.
Studied her face.
Aarohi met his gaze — calm, unblinking.
Silence stretched.
The chewing guard scoffed. "Give it time. They all break."
The crouching man didn't respond.
Instead, he spoke softly:
"What's your name?"
Aarohi held his eyes.
Said nothing.
The chewing guard snorted. "What the hell, she mute?"
A girl behind Aarohi whispered fearfully.
The man leaned closer.
"Forty-seven," he repeated, as if testing the shape of the number.
Aarohi's voice emerged quiet and steady:
"I have a name."
The chewing guard barked a laugh. "Oh ho. Spirit. How touching."
"Shut up," the crouching man said without looking back.
He studied her a moment longer — not cruelly, not kindly — as if filing something away.
Then he stood.
"Record unchanged."
They moved on.
The lantern light drifted away.
Darkness returned.
But something had shifted.
They had seen her.
And she had not yielded.
A shaky whisper behind her:
"You shouldn't talk to them…"
"I didn't talk," Aarohi replied.
Meera exhaled slowly. "Hmm."
Time stretched again.
A distant generator hummed.
Water dripped.
Breathing surrounded her.
Aarohi mapped each sound carefully.
Sixteen breaths.
Seventeen.
One uneven.
One too shallow.
One struggling.
She whispered instructions in fragments.
"Slow breaths."
"Keep your tongue to the roof of your mouth."
"Move your toes."
"Stay awake."
The darkness listened.
And obeyed.
A thread was forming.
Not rebellion.
Not yet.
Connection.
Hours later — or what felt like hours — Meera whispered:
"There's a loose stone behind you."
Aarohi stilled.
"Don't turn," Meera breathed. "Second row. I felt it when they dragged me."
Aarohi pressed her shoulder back slowly.
Cold edge.
Rough seam.
Stone worn by moisture.
Possibility.
Her pulse deepened, not quickened.
Preparation.
A faint whisper drifted from the other side.
"Why are you helping us?"
Aarohi answered after a long pause.
"Because we are still here."
Silence.
Then a soft, broken breath that might have been gratitude.
Footsteps echoed again above.
A voice muttered:
"Boss coming tomorrow."
"Then keep them quiet tonight."
"Yeah, yeah… last thing we need is noise."
Another spat:
"If one more starts screaming, I swear—"
Their voices faded.
Aarohi inhaled slowly.
Tomorrow.
Time had a boundary now.
And boundaries could be measured.
Meera's whisper brushed her ear again:
"You're planning something."
Aarohi did not answer.
After a moment:
"…hmmm," Meera murmured.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Far away, beyond the concrete and steel and damp earth, memory stirred.
Temple bells.
Not gentle.
Not distant.
Calling.
Summoning.
The rhythm rose in her mind, steady as heartbeat.
Not comfort.
Command.
A girl near the wall began to cry softly again.
"I want my mother…"
"Shh," someone whispered.
"Please… please…"
Aarohi spoke into the darkness:
"Listen to me."
The crying softened.
"Breathe with me," she said.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Gradually, the sobbing aligned with breath.
The chamber shifted from chaos to rhythm.
From panic to pulse.
Even the drip of water seemed to follow.
Meera whispered, awe threading her voice:
"They're listening to you."
Aarohi closed her eyes.
"They're listening to themselves."
From the stairwell, a guard's irritated voice echoed faintly:
"Why's it so quiet down there?"
Another replied:
"Maybe they finally shut up."
"About damn time."
Their footsteps retreated.
In the darkness, Aarohi pressed her bound wrists subtly against the rough seam of stone.
Fibers strained.
Not enough.
Yet.
She stilled.
Waited.
Prepared.
Beside her, Meera whispered one last time before silence reclaimed the chamber:
"They take names," she said. "But they can't take what remembers them."
Aarohi breathed in.
Temple bells rang louder in her memory.
Not peace.
Not prayer.
A summons.
And somewhere deep within her stillness, something answered.
In the thick silence, stone scraped softly behind Aarohi's back.
Not falling.
Shifting.
And from the darkness beyond the chamber walls, a distant voice echoed down the corridor:
"Make sure Forty-seven is ready tomorrow."
A pause.
Then another voice replied:
"Oh, she will be."
The generator hummed.
The drip counted time.
And Aarohi Singh, bound in darkness, began counting with it.