In the dim corridors of her childhood, pain was not an accident—it was routine.
The walls of the mansion stood tall and unyielding, witnesses to every cry they chose to swallow.
It was in one such shadowed corner that a trembling voice rose, fragile yet desperate—
"Please… please dadi, jaane do… mat maaro… dard ho raha hai bahut," the young girl cried, her tears glistening like broken pearls on her cheeks.

But her words were met with nothing but disdain.
"Chup kar, besharam ladki! Humari izzat dubayegi kya naach ke?"
The voice of the old woman cut like a blade, sharp and merciless. Her small, delicate wrists were gripped until the blood ceased to flow, as if her very existence needed to be tamed, broken, caged.

Years slipped by, but the shadows remained unchanged.
Five years later, the pleas still echoed—only the tone had grown quieter, more exhausted, as if hope was slipping from her hands.
"Maa… open the door, please… darr lag raha hai. Maa, jaane do… dadi, please jaane do. Aaj ke baad nahi karungi aisa," the young girl begged, her fists pounding against the cold wooden door until her knuckles turned raw.

But the silence behind that door was heavier than screams.
It was the silence of a woman who had chosen reputation over her own daughter’s heartbeat.
The silence that told her—she was alone. Always had been. Always would be.

More years passed.
Her body grew taller, her voice deeper, but the ache in her heart remained the same—a caged bird with wings clipped too soon.

One day, a man stood in front of her—his face worn from battles she didn’t understand, his eyes softer than the world she knew.
"Come with me, beta. Aur kitna bardaasht karogi inke zulm? Apne baba ke saath chalo," he said, his hand brushing her head like the touch of a forgotten memory.

But the girl, now old enough to carry scars in silence, shook her head.
"Nahi papa… agar main bhi chali gayi, toh maa ke paas koi nahi bachega," she whispered, her voice trembling—not with fear, but with the loyalty of someone who had learned to bleed without complaint.

The man’s expression turned cold, the warmth in his voice replaced by a truth she didn’t want to hear.
"Teri maa ab teri maa nahi rahi. Woh sirf ek high-class society ki lady hai… jise sirf apni izzat aur pehchaan se pyaar hai. Uske liye woh kuch bhi kar sakti hai," he said, his words laced with both love and resignation, before turning away.

She stood there long after he was gone, staring at the door that had always been locked—both inside her home and inside her heart.
She didn’t cry anymore.
The tears had dried years ago.

But sometimes, in the solitude of the night, she would hum.
A broken melody.
A song she was never allowed to sing aloud.
It was the only thing she truly owned—her silent rebellion, her unspoken fire.

And somewhere, in a world she hadn’t yet seen,
someone was destined to find that melody.
Someone who would see her not as a burden of honor,
but as a girl aching to dance in the rain she had only ever imagined.

The day he walks in,
her silence will no longer be her cage.
But will he set her free—
or become the storm that drowns her completely?