A few hours later, the news finally reached Ankhush's mother.
The moment she heard it, her heart clenched. Without wasting another second, she grabbed her purse and hurried out of the house, her mind consumed with worry.
On the way to the hospital, she stopped by the market. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for a few apples. He'll need something nutritious when he wakes up… she thought, trying to steady her emotions.
At the fruit stall, she cleared her throat and asked, "How much for 500 grams?"
The vendor glanced at the weighing scale before replying, "Seventy rupees."
She handed over the money, took the apples, and quickly resumed her journey to the hospital.
Upon arriving, she strode straight to the reception desk, her voice slightly unsteady as she asked, "Excuse me, in which room is Ankhush Sharma admitted?"
The receptionist glanced at her, then turned to the computer, fingers clicking rapidly on the keyboard. A few moments passed before she looked up and replied, "He is in Room No. 969."
Her hands trembled as she stared at the blade. Her reflection glinted off the cold steel, distorted by the overhead light. Her breathing grew uneven.
What am I doing? she thought, gripping the handle tighter. A war waged inside her—one side telling her to go through with it, the other screaming at her to stop.
Her gaze shifted to Ankhush's unconscious face. His injuries, the bruises, the bandages wrapped around his body—everything reminded her of how fragile he was in this moment.
The knife in her hand suddenly felt unbearably heavy.
With a shaky breath, she took a step back.
Ankhush's mother clutched the knife tightly, her fingers trembling. Her thoughts swirled in chaos.
"I shouldn't do this. This is not the child I gave birth to... but he is still my child."
With a deep, shuddering breath, she lowered the knife. Her grip loosened, and she placed it back inside her purse. Instead, she reached for the bag of apples she had bought earlier. Carefully, she pulled one out and began slicing it into neat pieces.
The rhythmic sound of the knife against the fruit filled the otherwise silent hospital room.
Just then, the door creaked open. She looked up and saw Mansh stepping inside, holding a bouquet of fresh flowers. He hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering between her and the unconscious Ankhush. Then, offering a small, awkward smile, he approached her.
Without a word, he searched the room for a vase. Spotting one on a nearby shelf, he picked it up, carried it to the sink, and rinsed it out. He filled it with water, gently placed the flowers inside, and set the vase on the table beside Ankhush's bed.
Once finished, Mansh quietly pulled up a chair and sat next to Ankhush's mother.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the steady beeping of the heart monitor and the faint hum of hospital machinery.
Mansh's gaze lingered on Ankhush's bandaged face before shifting down to his own hands, which were clenched into fists on his lap.
Then, in a trembling voice, Ankhush's mother finally broke the silence.
The weight of her words hung heavily in the air. Her voice trembled, thick with anguish, as tears streamed down her face. She clutched the edge of Ankhush's hospital bed, her fingers digging into the fabric as if holding on for dear life.
Mansh lowered his head, his own heart heavy with guilt. He wanted to say something—anything—to comfort her, but no words felt right. How could he possibly ease the pain of a mother who had almost lost her son?
After a long silence, he finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.
Mansh: "I... I wish I knew why. But I promise you, I'll find out. And I won't let anything happen to him again."
Ankhush's mother wiped her tears with the back of her hand, taking deep, shaky breaths. Though her sorrow remained, something in Mansh's tone—his quiet determination—made her pause. She looked at him, searching his face for answers.
Ankhush's Mom (softly): "Do you know something, Mansh? Do you know why my son was in such a hurry that he didn't even see the truck coming?"
Mansh clenched his fists. He did know. He had his suspicions. But saying them out loud meant acknowledging a terrifying truth—one that neither of them was prepared for.
Overwhelmed by the weight of her emotions, Ankhush's mother broke down completely. She sobbed uncontrollably, her cries echoing through the sterile hospital room—raw, anguished, like a child abandoned in an unfamiliar world.
Mansh, unable to bear the sight, clenched his fists. A lump formed in his throat, but he swallowed it down. He wanted to offer comfort, to say something—anything—but no words came. Instead, a suffocating helplessness settled in his chest.
Without a word, he turned and quietly left the hospital.
Even as he walked away, her cries haunted him, ringing in his ears like a ghost that wouldn't let go.
Back home, Mansh sat at his desk, staring at the blank pages in front of him. He had been preparing for a writing competition for weeks, but now, no words would come. His thoughts refused to stay still, constantly circling back to Ankhush—to the sight of him lying motionless, to the messages he had ignored, to the agonizing reality that, for once, he hadn't been there when it mattered most.
With a sigh, he picked up his phone, his fingers hesitating before unlocking the screen.
A flood of unread messages from Ankhush filled the screen.
His chest tightened as he tapped on them, his eyes scanning the words.