Fear gripped him like ice, raw and absolute. He was alone, yet the weight of all he could lose pressed on him as if the world itself might crumble at a wrong step.
Then, finally, there it was—the bamboo forest, dense and alive, breathing around him. He pushed through, reaching the heart where a lake lay like a dark mirror, reflecting the first shivering stars. The island’s festival drums and lanterns began their distant, impatient hum. Suraj stumbled forward and fell into the lake.
The water embraced him, cold and unyielding. His mind tore open. Memories, not only his own but someone else’s, poured in, a river breaking through fragile dams.
Memories flashes
He saw it clearly: a house, bright and alive, full of laughter. There was Khushi, with brown hair that caught sunlight like honey, and beside her, a twin, Roshini, golden-haired, shining like the dawn.
Their grandpa smiled down at them, hands gnarled but warm.
Their parents’ voices mingled in the air, soft and grounding. They were a family, a fortress of ordinary happiness, living day by day with gentle rituals and quiet joys.
And then, grief came like a storm. Their grandpa passed, and the funeral was held in the same hall, on the same somber stone floor and same day where Suraj’s own mother had been mourned.
Years passed, but calamity was not yet done. A monstrous wave swallowed their parents, swept Roshini into nothingness, leaving Khushi adrift, alone in a world that refused to hold her.
Suraj saw her struggle, every breath a battle, every smile a crack in fragile armor. She lived—but each memory pulled her toward death, each recollection a wound that never healed. Trauma had claimed her like a tide, relentless and merciless, and Suraj could feel it, piercing through the water, through time, through his very soul.
The memory did not let go. It stretched and twisted, a river of light and shadow through Khushi’s mind. Years had passed, but in her heart, the echoes of her grandpa’s words remained: the island, the mountain, the lake hidden in the bamboo forest—a place that could grant a single wish, no matter the cost.
On the day of the festival, when lanterns began to flicker like distant stars and the moon hung shy above the horizon, Khushi made her choice. She would climb the mountain, reach the lake, and ask for her sister to live. Her hope was fragile, yet fierce.
The island heard her plea. The world trembled with the weight of her wish. And in return, it took her—Khushi—from existence. Her brown hair turned blonde, her form became Roshini’s, but the soul of Roshini did not return. For everyone else, Khushi had vanished as if she had never been. No one remembered her, no one called her name. She existed only in the silent ache of absence.
Broken, yet not entirely defeated, she clung to a single thread of hope: that perhaps, at the next festival, she could meet Roshini, even for a fleeting word, a shared breath in the night. She spent the year contemplating what she could sacrifice to make it happen. At last, she decided—the only thing left was herself, her soul, her very existence
.
But fate had another plan.
That night, when Khushi—now living as Roshini—waited on the mountain peak for the sky to bloom with stars, for the moonlight she had longed for so desperately, Suraj appeared. She introduced herself to him as Roshini, and together they climbed toward the peak.
In the quiet, as Suraj painted the night with his heart and mind, he made a wish—unconsciously, unaware of the tides he stirred.
He wished to regain his lost gift of painting. The island heard him.
And it took.
It took Roshini—the one who had made him feel what it truly meant to be alive, to exist in the moments between heartbeats. The moment Suraj will leave the island, he will lose Roshini.
But the island was merciful in its cruelty. Roshini’s form transformed once again. Khushi returned to the world, alive, breathing, present.
Even as she came back, the island granted her one small wish: to speak to Roshini, if only for a moment. And so, the two sisters met—one who had been, one who had returned. The sky stretched endlessly above them, stars like whispered promises, and Khushi’s heart overflowed with tears.
Roshini knelt beside her, golden hair brushing the night air, eyes full of sorrow and hope.
“Sister,” she said softly, “please live for yourself. Live in the present, not in the shadow of the past. How can you forget your own words that when you meet lost ones in sky, how they will think about you? So get your act together. You will definitely meet someone who will love you more than anyone you have ever known.”
Khushi’s tears fell freely, and with them, the final remnants of her memory as Roshini dissolved. The version of her that had met Suraj, that had existed as another, was gone. She was Khushi again, whole yet changed, and in the silence that followed, the weight of the past lightened slightly, leaving only the fragile, luminous thread of possibility—the chance to live, truly live, at last.
Suraj’s gaze faltered, drawn to the lake where the moonlight danced like silver flames across the rippling water. And then he saw her.
Khushi. Or rather, the memory of her, breathing once more into existence. She stood at the edge of the lake, her form shimmering, fragile, caught between what was and what had been. In that moment, Suraj understood the truth—the sacrifice she had made.
She had come here today, to this very lake, and wished herself to become Roshini again. She had understood—he had been searching for Roshini all this time, yearning for the presence that had once made his world feel alive. And she, the sister who had lived and suffered in silence, had chosen to vanish from the world she loved, to give him the one he sought, and to restore Roshini’s light.
The island had listened once more. Her existence, her very self, had been given in exchange for the happiness of those she loved.
She had disappeared from the island, leaving only the echo of her sacrifice behind.
The island had listened once more. Her existence, her very self, had been given in exchange for the happiness of those she loved.
She had disappeared from the island, leaving only the echo of her sacrifice behind.
Suraj’s chest ached as the weight of realization settled on him. She had done this—for him, for Roshini, for the fragile thread of life and love that bound them all. And yet, she had done it without complaint, without bitterness, carrying the burden of her own absence with quiet grace.
The lake shimmered, the bamboo whispered, and the festival lights flickered in the distance, oblivious to the depth of the sacrifice that had just unfolded. And in that silence, Suraj finally understood the truth: the world had been shaped by her courage, by her love, and by the selfless light of a heart willing to vanish so others might live.
End of Memories flashes
Suraj ran, heart pounding, up the steep path toward the mountain peak. The wind whipped at his hair, tugged at his sleeves, but he hardly felt it. Every step carried him closer to a truth he had chased through shadows, memories, and lost time.
At the peak, beneath a sky scattered with stars and bathed in silver moonlight, he saw her.
Roshini.
Her golden hair caught the light like sunlight spilling over a calm lake. She smiled softly, eyes warm and knowing.
“It’s nice to meet you again, Mr. Painter,” she said, her voice both familiar and strange, carrying the weight of things neither of them could fully name.
Suraj’s lips curved into a smile. A rush of relief and recognition flowed through him, mingling with the quiet awe of the night.
“Thanks for helping me… thanks for remembering the promise,” Roshini whispered, her tone carrying the gravity of a thousand untold moments.
And then, as the wind seemed to pause in reverence, she began to change. Her golden hair rippled and shifted, flowing back into soft brown. Her form shimmered, and the Roshini he had been seeking became Khushi once again.
Khushi’s eyes, deep and luminous, met his. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, voice trembling. “It was me who forgot you.” Suraj shook his head, reaching out instinctively. “You didn’t forget,” he said. His voice was steady, though his heart was heavy with the memory of years lost and found. “I told you I would come looking for you, even if both of us lost our memories. And… thank you. Not just once, but twice. You saved me.” A memory surged within him—the day of his mother’s funeral.
The darkness he had felt then, the girl who had appeared, unseen by others, offering a hand, a comfort, a spark of hope—it had been Khushi. The girl who had saved him from despair before, and now again.
The mountain, the lake, the bamboo forest, the festival lights— they all seemed to pause, holding their breath, as if the world itself acknowledged the quiet miracle of reunion.
Khushi and Suraj stood there, two souls intertwined across time and memory, the night around them alive with whispers of what had been lost and the fragile, luminous joy of what had been found.
And for the first time in what felt like eternity, everything was as it should be.
The end.
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