It was 2:13 a.m.
I remember the exact time because I haven't slept properly since.
I woke up to shouting.
"Help me! Someone help me!"
I ran to her room.
She was standing on the bed, terrified, clutching her pillow.
"Ma!" I rushed forward.
She backed away.
"Don't touch me!" she screamed. "Where am I? Who are you people?"
People.
As if I was part of some crowd.
"It's me," I said, tears already falling. "It's Aarohi."
Her breathing was fast. Panicked.
"There was a little girl," she cried. "Where is she? I have to find her!"
I climbed onto the bed and held her carefully.
"She's safe," I whispered. "She's grown up."
"No," she sobbed. "She needs me."
Her voice cracked on that sentence.
And that was the moment everything inside me shattered.
Because even without memory…
She still felt like a mother.
She still felt responsible.
She still felt love.
It just had nowhere to land.
I held her until she stopped shaking.
She fell asleep in my arms, exhausted.
And I stayed awake, staring at the ceiling.
I realized something that night.
I was slowly losing her.
Not in one dramatic moment.
But in small pieces.
A word today.
A memory tomorrow.
A recognition next week.
And one day…
There would be nothing left to lose.
But as I gently laid her back on her pillow, she stirred.
Her eyes fluttered open just slightly.
And she whispered one word.
"Aarohi."
Clear.
Certain.
Perfect.
My breath stopped.
"Yes," I whispered desperately. "I'm here."
Her lips curved faintly.
And then she slept.
I sat there for hours, holding her hand.
Because I didn't know if that would be the last time she ever said my name.