Destiny, as the poets say, does not ask permission. It weaves its threads with precision and cruelty, binding lives together only to tear them apart again. For Ved Mishra and Ovi Agnihotri, their love story had been written in the language of the stars, a cosmic bond forged in passion and fractured by vengeance. It had been a tale soaked in tenderness, bruised by betrayal, and ultimately silenced by the crushing weight of pain neither of them had truly chosen.

Their hearts had beat in synchrony once. But love, however magnetic, is not always enough. Especially when life intervenes with bloodied hands and whispered threats. And when they were torn apart, it wasn’t the kind of distance that time or apology could bridge. It was a separation forged in fire and silence, leaving behind only ruins—fragments of what once was, and the ache of what could never be.

Seven Years Later

Time is a thief. It steals gently at first—a moment here, a name there—until one day, you look in the mirror and don’t recognize the reflection. The city had changed. Once-familiar corners now belonged to strangers. The skyline wore a crown of towers that hadn’t existed when their story began. And those who had once called Ved or Ovi by name had moved on, lost in the endless current of life.

But some things, even time cannot touch.

Grief.

Vengeance.

And the haunting echo of a love that refused to die.

In the tranquil hills of Dehradun, far from the memories of her previous world, a woman stood at the heart of an orphanage, laughter on her lips and pain in her eyes. She was known to the world as Gatha Kashyap—the noble heiress of the illustrious Kashyap family. Compassionate. Graceful. Beloved by children and respected by the elite.

But Gatha was a woman without a past. At twenty-nine, her memory stretched back only seven years. Everything before that was a blank slate, painted over by the story her family gave her: an accident, a miracle survival, and a second chance at life.

She smiled often. But in the quiet moments between dusk and sleep, when the world slipped into slumber and the air grew heavy with unspoken truths, she lay awake with a hollow ache inside her. A void she couldn’t name. A phantom limb of a life she couldn’t remember. A whisper of a name she had long forgotten.

And yet, she had rebuilt herself out of brokenness. She had built a home, a purpose, a heartbeat. That heartbeat was embodied in two tiny souls: Aayu and Ooven. Her children. Her light.

They were not born of her body, but they called her "Mumma" with all the love in the world. And that was enough.

On a monsoon-drenched afternoon, as the heavens opened their floodgates and rain drenched the sleepy town, Gatha returned to the orphanage with her arms full—colorful storybooks, sweets wrapped in foil, and toys chosen with care.

The children swarmed her with laughter and open arms. She kneeled among them, her smile genuine. Their tiny hands tugged at her dupatta, their giggles echoing through the halls.

She was flipping through a fairy tale when her phone vibrated. The screen lit up with a name that always made her heart swell:

Munchkins.

She answered with a bright, "Hello, my babies—"

But joy dissolved into horror.

Sobbing. Terrified. Breathless.

"Mumma! Help us! Please!"

It was Aayu. And Ooven. Their voices fractured with panic.

Gatha's heart stopped. "Sweethearts? Where are you? What happened? Mumma is coming, okay? Just hold on—"

Then, a third voice.

Cold.

Cruel.

And entirely unfamiliar.

"Hello, Gatha ji. Did you really think we wouldn’t find you?"

Her blood turned to ice. "Who are you? What do you want?"

A dark chuckle. "Oh, I want many things. But today... I want you."

Her jaw clenched. "If you harm them, I swear—"

"Such fire," the voice purred. "Almost admirable. But bravery won't save them. Come alone. The address is on your phone. Try anything clever, and your munchkins will never need bedtime stories again."

The line went dead.

And for a moment, the world did too.

She stood motionless, the laughter of the children around her fading into static. Then, with trembling fingers, she redialed the only number that could offer her support.

"dad..." Her voice cracked. "They took the kids. They’re asking for me."

There was a pause. Then her father’s voice—a bastion of strength throughout her life—wavered. "Stay where you are. I’ll send security. The DIG is—"

"No!" she shouted. "There's no time! I have to go now!"

In the Kashyap mansion, alarms rang. Orders were given. Phones lit up. The state’s top officials were alerted, and GPS trackers pinged. But none of it mattered.

Gatha was already running.

She jumped into her car, heart pounding, fingers flying across the dashboard to punch in the location. As the vehicle roared to life, the rain thickened into sheets, drowning the roads and darkening the skies.

"Faster," she whispered. "Faster, Gatha."

The city blurred past her window. Trees swayed violently in the storm. Thunder roared overhead like an omen. Her eyes darted between the road and her phone. Her thoughts were spiraling.

What if they were hurt already?

What if she was too late?

A car swerved in front of her and she jerked the wheel, tires screeching. Her breath came in ragged bursts, her knuckles white against the steering wheel. Her pulse was a roar in her ears.

Memories collided with panic.

Aayu falling asleep on her lap.

Ooven insisting she read the same bedtime story four times.

Tiny hands clutching hers during their evening walks.

She couldn’t lose them. She couldn’t lose her heart again.

Then it happened.

A sharp curve.

Skid marks.

Brakes failed.

A deafening crash.

Metal screamed.

Glass shattered.

The car flipped once, twice. Time fractured. The world spun in chaos. Rain flooded into broken windows, mingling with blood.

When the dust settled, silence took its place.

Gatha lay still.

Blood pooled at her temple, trickling down her cheek. Her legs were pinned, her arms limp. The jagged edge of a window had sliced deep into her side. The scent of gasoline hung heavy in the air.

Her breath came shallow. Pain thundered through her body. But it was nothing compared to the anguish in her heart.

She tried to move.

Failed.

Tried again.

Agony.

Her fingers twitched. Her lips parted.

"My babies..."

Tears mixed with the rain on her face.

I failed, she thought.

I failed to protect them.

The memories came in flashes:

Ooven’s birthday cake smeared on his nose.

Aayu’s laughter during hide-and-seek.

Tiny arms wrapped around her neck.

They gave me a second life.

And I couldn’t save theirs.

The world blurred.

Her heartbeat slowed.

She didn’t even know who she was before them. But she knew this: without them, she wasn’t anyone now.

And as her consciousness slipped, as the heavens wept with fury and sorrow, Gatha Kashyap whispered the only truth that mattered:

"I’m sorry."

And then, darkness took over her eyes.

To be continued...