Samriddhi

By the time Samriddhi returned home, the weight of the day finally settled in.

She went straight to her room, opening the cupboard to change — and then her hand froze.

Her ear.

Empty.

Her heart sank as she touched it again, slower this time, already knowing what she’d find. The other jhumka was gone. Another favourite pair — lost.

She exhaled deeply, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“So now both identical ones are gone,” she whispered, a sad smile tugging at her lips.

Strangely, she didn’t panic this time.

Maybe the day had already taken enough from her. Maybe the thought of the child in the hospital mattered more. She pushed the feeling aside — tomorrow would be long, and she needed rest.

After a warm bath and clean clothes, she lay down, staring at the ceiling as the events of the day replayed quietly in her mind.

The fall.
The hospital.
The doctor’s calm voice.

Sleep came gently.

Morning arrived at six.

Samriddhi moved through her routine with practiced ease — jeans, a simple shirt, hair pulled into a messy bun. She made breakfast, packed her bag, and by eight, she was already on her way to the hospital.

The private ward was quiet.

The little boy was still asleep, machines humming softly beside him. She pulled a chair close and sat down, watching his chest rise and fall, relief filling her with every steady breath.

The door opened.

She looked up.

It was him.

Surprise flickered across his face when he saw her there so early.
“You’re here already,” he said.

“I wanted to check on him,” she replied softly. “How is he?”

They spoke in hushed tones — about his condition, about when he might regain consciousness, about the coming days.

“He’ll wake up soon,” he assured her. “Just give it time.”

She nodded, comforted.

Standing up, she smiled politely.
“I’ll come again at night. Thank you… for everything.”

She greeted him, wished him a good day, and walked out — her classes waiting, her routine calling.

Neither of them noticed how easily mornings were beginning to include each other.