The wind outside howled softly against the stained glass windows of St. Mary’s Orphanage in North London. It was a quiet winter afternoon. Cold. Dull. Still.
Inside, a fifteen-year-old Ruhan Singhal sat on a worn wooden bench near the reception, tapping his fingers against his thigh with quiet impatience. His sharp eyes scanned the dusty hallway with indifference. Even at that age, there was something powerful about his presence—like he knew he didn’t belong to such small, broken places.
He wore a dark grey coat tailored to perfection, his posture relaxed but commanding. His mother, Zaniya, was inside the administrator’s office—discussing charity donations, monthly funds, and scholarships. All boring things, according to Ruhan.
“I’m going outside,” he muttered.
Zaniya didn’t look back. “Just don’t disappear, darling.”
With that, he walked away, pushing open the door to the children’s area—expecting noise, laughter, maybe chaos.
But what he didn’t expect…
was her.
A small girl. No older than five.
Sitting alone in the farthest corner of the playroom, holding a torn, faded doll in her lap. She wasn’t playing. She wasn’t speaking. She wasn’t even watching the others.
She was simply… still.
And something about that stillness tugged at him.
Her face was pale, framed by uneven strands of jet-black hair that looked like they hadn’t been brushed properly in days. But her eyes—deep, brown, and haunting—were far too heavy for a child her age.
She didn’t belong to the noise, the games, or even the light coming through the window.
She looked like she belonged to silence.
Ruhan’s brows furrowed as he stood there, frozen, watching her. He didn’t know why—maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was something more.
The other children were laughing, chasing each other with worn toys and half-broken puzzles. There was life in the room, yes. But that corner—her corner—felt like it didn’t belong to this place.
It felt like its own quiet universe.
He took a step forward. Then another. Slowly, cautiously.
She noticed him. But she didn’t flinch.
She didn’t move.
She just looked at him with those huge, sad eyes, as if he were something she couldn’t name.
He crouched down beside her.
“Why aren’t you playing with them?” he asked softly, nodding toward the laughing children.
No answer.
He glanced at her doll. Its stuffing was coming out at the seams. One eye was missing. But she held it gently, protectively—like it was the only thing she had.
Ruhan swallowed hard. He didn’t know why her silence made his chest tighten. He had grown up around power, wealth, and command. But this little girl’s silence felt louder than any boardroom or gunshot he had ever heard.
She said nothing.
She just kept looking at him.
And then—She smiled.A small, quiet, almost invisible smile.
The kind that didn’t reach her eyes.
The kind that carried pain far too deep for her age.
It was a smile of someone who didn’t expect anything.
Not friendship. Not kindness. Not even a reason to be remembered.
Ruhan felt something twist inside his chest. A sharp pull. Foreign.
He didn’t understand it.
But he couldn’t ignore it either.
Before he could say another word, a voice called from the hallway.
“Ruhan, come. We’re leaving.”
It was Zaniya.
He looked at the little girl one last time. She hadn’t moved.
She hadn’t spoken.
But something in her silence, in her eyes, in that broken little smile—clung to him like a shadow.
He rose to his feet, took a slow step back, and turned away.
But his heart?It stayed.
That day, he left the orphanage.
But the little girl’s silence didn’t leave him.
Even as the car sped through the narrow London lanes, Ruhan’s eyes stared out of the window blankly, but in his mind—only one thing echoed,Her smile.
The way she hadn’t said a word. The way she looked at him like she didn’t expect anything.
And yet... she smiled.
It haunted him. It pulled him.
And somewhere deep within, it ached.
“Orphanage se nikalne ke baad Ruhan ke yaadon se Aarohi ki woh muskurahat ja hi nahi rahi thi... usko phir se dekhne ki talab ho rahi thi.”
He didn’t even know her name.
But he wanted to see her again.
Zaniya noticed his silence as she glanced at him from the driver’s seat.
“Ruhan?” she said softly. “What’s wrong? Where did you disappear just now?”
He blinked, pulled out of his thoughts, and looked at her.
“Mom,” he said slowly, “when will we go back to the orphanage?”
Zaniya gave him a surprised glance, her brows slightly raised.
She paused, thinking. “Umm… maybe on your next birthday?”
That was months away. But something about that answer made his chest feel lighter.
A small smile curved on Ruhan’s lips. Not his usual arrogant smirk—this one was softer, gentler.
He didn’t say anything out loud.
But in his heart, he whispered:
“Little purple… intezaar karna. Main aunga.”
Thankyou 💜
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