Samriddhi

Time has a gentle way of softening memories.

A few months had passed since the day she lost her jhumka, and slowly, life had moved on. That morning, Samriddhi stood in front of the mirror wearing a cream-coloured anarkali, its fabric light and calm — just like her mood. She reached for another favourite pair of jhumkas and smiled at her reflection.

Today was her day off.

Her parents were out of town for a wedding, so the house felt quieter than usual. She made herself a simple breakfast, ate it leisurely, and after locking the door behind her, headed straight to the place that always felt like home — Tulip Orphanage.

The moment she entered, the air changed.

“Didi!”
“Didi aa gayi!”

Little feet ran toward her, arms wrapping around her legs, laughter spilling everywhere. Within minutes, the space filled with noise, joy, and careless happiness. She played with them, listened to their stories, laughed until her cheeks hurt.

And then — a scream.

Sharp. Sudden.

Her heart dropped.

Everyone ran toward the staircase, fear already settling in her chest. A little boy — no more than five or six — lay on the floor, blood trickling from his head, his small body trembling in pain.

Samriddhi didn’t think.

She knelt beside him, her hands steady despite the panic.
“It’s okay… I’m here,” she whispered, though her voice shook.

With the manager’s help, they lifted him and rushed him into her car. The drive to Sunshine Hospital felt endless, every second stretching thin with worry.

The emergency ward buzzed with urgency.

Soon, a doctor arrived — calm, composed, his presence grounding the chaos.

“Vaibhav Khanna,” he introduced briefly. “Neurosurgeon.”

He took the reports, assessed the child quickly, and within moments, the boy was wheeled into surgery.

Waiting was the hardest part.

Time crawled.

When the doors finally opened, relief flooded her chest as he spoke —
“The operation was successful.”

Her shoulders sagged, breath leaving her in a quiet exhale.

They spoke in his cabin afterward. He explained the precautions gently — the child would stay in the hospital for a week, and extra care would be needed for the next few weeks.

She listened carefully, nodding, absorbing every word.

Grateful. Exhausted. Relieved.

As they stood to leave, unnoticed by anyone — unnoticed even by her — one of her jhumkas slipped from her ear and fell silently to the floor.

No sound.
No pause.

They walked out of the cabin, unaware that fate had just repeated itself.