The air in Siyara's room always smelled like turpentine and unfinished dreams.
It was still early-the sky outside her window soft, painted with pale lavender and gray, like the morning was still half asleep. The world hadn't opened its eyes yet, but Siyara was already awake. She had been up for hours, her fingers messy with black, blue, and crimson stains. Her wrists hurt, not from sleep, but from holding the brush too long, like it was the only weapon she had.
She stood barefoot on the cold floor, her old cotton nightdress dotted with paint from days before. On the easel in front of her was a painting-half finished. But it stared back at her like a cruel mirror.
A girl. Chained. Bleeding. Kneeling on the floor of some forgotten room.
But the girl's eyes... they looked at the window. At the light. At hope.
Siyara's hand shook as she painted another red drop rolling down the ankle. Her chest felt heavy, like something inside wanted to break out. But she didn't cry. She never cried. Crying felt like a luxury, and she had already learned to live without it.
---
At breakfast, the smell of toasted bread and mango jam filled the table, but the silence was louder.
Aryan, her elder brother, broke it first. "Still painting the same thing?"
Siyara nodded.
"What is it this time? A broken heart? A woman screaming? Or another one of your dark pieces?" he teased.
"A girl," Siyara said. "She's in chains. But she's looking at the window."
No one spoke for a moment. Her father looked at her mother, but said nothing.
Aryan sighed. "Can't you paint something light for once? Flowers? Maybe the sea?"
"I don't know how that looks," she said quietly. "Not yet."
Her mother touched her hand gently. Siyara flinched, but didn't pull away. "You're trying, sweetheart. That's enough for now."
Siyara gave a small nod.
Just then, her phone buzzed.
Nikita: Siyu, wake up! Today's the day. You're coming with me. No excuses. I'll break your studio door if I have to.
Siyara: Only 30 minutes.
Nikita: Deal. See you at 11. And wear something that doesn't scream 'ghost writer'.
Siyara sighed.
"I have to go to an exhibition with Nikki," she muttered.
Aryan raised his eyebrow. "By choice?"
"No. She threatened me," Siyara said simply.
Their father chuckled. "Maybe it'll do you good. Fresh air instead of paint fumes."
Their mother kissed her forehead. "And maybe you'll find inspiration."
Siyara stayed quiet. She didn't say what she really felt-that inspiration came from silence. From shadows. From the kind of pain that never leaves... only learns how to hide itself in front of people.
---------
Aarav Malhotra believed in three things: power, discipline, and silence.
He woke before the sun, like always. His bed was neat, his shower cold.
He didn't believe in fate. Or love. Or anything soft.
Not after what she did.
His phone buzzed-emails, market updates, staff reports. He read them all without blinking, like a machine. But when he walked down into the giant dining hall of the Malhotra estate, it wasn't numbers he heard first.
It was his grandmother.
"You're almost thirty," she said, sipping chai. "Still unmarried. I think you're hiding someone."
"Maybe I'm hiding from someone," he said, biting into toast.
His mother smiled. "Aarav, beta, all this-" she waved at the wealth, the house, the empire- "it means nothing if you have no one to share it with."
"I don't need anyone. I need peace."
His sister smirked. "You need therapy."
He ignored her. "I have work. Let's not start this again."
But his grandmother wasn't done.
"There's an art exhibition today," she said sweetly. "Your mother and I want to go. You have to take us."
"I have meetings."
"You have excuses," she shot back. "If you don't come, I swear on your father's name, I'll walk into your office in a saree and sing Kabira until your investors run away."
He sighed. "Fine. Thirty minutes."
"Good," his mother said. "And wear something soft. You always look like you're going to war."
-----------
Siyara stood in front of the mirror, nervous. The mirror never felt like a friend, but today it felt like it was testing her. Nikita had told her to wear something bright-a sundress or pastel colors. But Siyara chose a plain black kurti, safe and familiar. Her hair was in a messy braid, her eyes tired with a thin line of kohl.
"Thirty minutes," she whispered to herself. "Then I leave."
The gallery was beautiful, tucked in the center of the city. High ceilings, pale marble, soft music filling the air. Paintings covered the walls, sculptures stood tall, and people moved quietly, whispering.
Nikita walked beside her, full of energy. "You look like you walked out of a haunted palace."
Siyara sighed. "Thanks."
"That was a compliment, Siyu. People would pay to look this mysterious. Just... try to enjoy it."
Siyara only nodded, holding her sketchbook tightly. Whenever someone tried to talk to her, she just smiled politely and moved away.
Meanwhile...
Aarav arrived with his grandmother and mother. He wore a charcoal jacket, crisp white shirt, and looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. His mother tapped his arm.
"My wallet. I left it in the car."
He sighed. "I'll go."
He turned back toward the entrance-
And then it happened.
A girl taking a selfie stumbled backward and crashed into Aarav. He lost balance and stumbled forward-straight into Siyara.
Her painting smashed between them.
Paint splattered everywhere-red and black across her kurti, her skin, her sketchbook falling to the ground. The room froze.
Aarav stared, stunned.
But Siyara couldn't breathe.
The touch. The weight. The closeness. It dragged her back to places she never wanted to remember.
"Don't! Don't touch me! Don't come near me!" she screamed, stumbling back.
Aarav quickly raised his hands. "I didn't- I didn't mean to. I'm sorry."
Nikita rushed over. "Siyara! Are you okay? What the hell-?"
But Siyara didn't hear her. Her vision swam. Blood. Shadows. Hands she never wanted on her.
She gasped. "You ruined it."
Aarav's chest tightened. "I'm sorry, I'll fix it. I'll pay-"
"It's not about money." Her voice broke.
"I didn't mean to hurt you."
"You already did."
Her friend pulled Siyara with her. Siyara's name slipped from her lips as they walked off.
He didn't go back to his mother. He didn't move. He just stood there, surrounded by people, seeing nothing but her face-the terror in her eyes, the red paint dripping down her collarbone.
Later, he asked the gallery for her details.
"She never registers officially," the curator said. "She signs her work as 'S.D.' Keeps her identity hidden."
"I want a catalog of her work," Aarav demanded.
"She doesn't sell directly. But some pieces are in our archives. I'll send them to you."
That night, Aarav sat alone, scrolling through her paintings.
Every piece told the same story-women in pain, women in chains, women longing for escape.
He didn't sleep.
He kept replaying the video loop of her painting from the gallery-the one she had been finishing that very morning. He imagined her brush, her trembling hands, the way her pain bled into color.
He sat alone in his study, lights dim, the whole house quiet. Normally, he liked silence. But tonight, it felt heavy. Loud. Empty.
He opened his laptop and typed her name. Siyara.
No last name.
He tried again-"Siyara artist." "S.D. gallery." "black kurti painter."
Nothing.
He found old exhibition records with her initials, but nothing that led him to her. No social accounts, no open profiles. If she was online, she was hidden.
Still, he kept searching. Forums. Art pages. Messages to curators.
Her name had become his ritual.
Aarav's phone buzzed.
Curator: One of her older works was listed for private sale. We sent your inquiry. She refused, but her mentor approved it.
There was an attachment. A photo of a painting.
A girl in chains. Her eyes staring at a window.
Aarav stared at the image for a long time. Then he bought it. No hesitation.
