The white walls of the hospital were cold and silent, a sharp contrast to the storm that still raged outside.
Nitin Luthra sat on the bench outside the emergency room, his shirt soaked, blood crusting on his knees, his hair matted to his forehead. His breath had finally steadied, but his heart still thundered like a war drum.
Inside, the girl he believed to be Bhawna—his wife, his missing heartbeat—was fighting for her life.
The scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, and the rhythmic beeping from machines behind closed doors pierced the silence.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands.
How had it come to this again?
He had spent three years chasing shadows, refusing to accept the world’s cruel declaration that Bhawna was dead. People thought he had lost his mind. A man with billions, power, and status—yet roaming hospitals and villages, holding onto fading hope.
But tonight... tonight, fate gave him a face that matched the one he loved. A girl lost in the rain. A girl with Bhawna’s face.
His mind traveled backward—six years ago, a different Nitin, young, ambitious, a man building something from the ground up.
Just a garage and a fire in his chest—that was all he had when he met Bhawna.
She had come for an internship—soft-spoken, warm-eyed, with the kind of smile that made you want to believe again.
She didn’t care about his bank balance or his big dreams. She listened. She believed.
“One day, Nitin, Luthra Industries will touch the sky,” she had said, handing him coffee in a chipped blue mug, sitting cross-legged in that dusty old office.
And he had fallen. Hard. Quietly. Deeply.
He could still remember the way her eyes lit up when he cracked a deal, the way she scolded him when he forgot to eat, the way she said his name like it meant something.
He didn’t have a ring.
He didn’t have a plan.
Just a heart full of her.
And one evening, under the flickering tube light of that same cramped office where their journey began, he looked up from his notes, took a breath, and said—
“Marry me, Bhawna.”
No big speech. No drama. Just truth. The kind that settles in the bones and never leaves.
She had blinked, taken aback, coffee mug frozen halfway to her lips.
“You’re serious?” she had whispered.
He had nodded once, his voice soft but firm.
“We’ll build our dreams side by side. You’ve always believed in mine—let me believe in yours. We’ll grow together, Bhawna.”
Her eyes glistened. She set the mug down and crossed the room, wrapping her arms around his neck.
“Yes, Nitin. But…” she added, pulling back to look into his eyes, “promise me one thing?”
“Anything.”
“That after marriage, I get to chase my dream too. I want to be a product designer. I want to make things that matter.”
He smiled. That wide, rare smile he only gave her.
“Then I’ll build the company, and you’ll design what the world falls in love with.”
They were married two weeks later. A quiet wedding, just a few friends, her family, and a lot of hope. No designer lehenga. No golden mandap.
Just two hearts finding home in each other.
He had kissed her forehead that night and whispered:
“From now on, every sunrise is ours.”
But fate, cruel and cold, had other plans.
“Sir…?” a soft voice called, pulling him from the whirlpool of memory.
He looked up, almost afraid to hope.
It was the doctor.
“She’s awake,” the doctor said gently. “A little disoriented. You can go in. But one thing, you need to be careful as she don't remember anything. She is suffering from amnesia. Handle with care."
For a moment, he didn’t move.
Then, slowly, as if he was walking into a dream he feared would vanish, he stepped into the room.
She was sitting up, her arm bandaged, her hair damp, face pale.
Their eyes met.
And time… stood still.
“Bhawna…” he whispered, his voice cracking.
She stared at him.
Confused.
And then, she spoke, her voice small and fragile.
“Who… who are you?”
The ground shifted beneath him—but he smiled.
A broken, trembling smile.
Kneeling beside her hospital bed, Nitin reached for her hand, brushing her knuckles with a thumb that trembled despite his composed face.
“The doctor said… the accident took your memory,” he said gently, voice low and careful, as though speaking louder might shatter her all over again.
"But don't panic. I'm Nitin… your husband."
"And your name is Bhawna."
Muskaan blinked, her lashes heavy, her head throbbing as his words sank in like a fog she couldn’t see through.
Bhawna…?
The name felt foreign in her ears, like someone else’s shadow stitched to her skin.
She opened her mouth, but no words came—just the machines softly beeping, maybe in rhythm with his heart, not hers.
She looked into his eyes—dark, aching, full of stories she didn’t remember but could feel pressing against her bones.
Her gaze dropped to their joined hands. Her fingers, almost without thought, curled around his.
They fit.
Why does his touch feel so… safe?
Maybe because he’s my husband, her mind chided gently.
But that didn’t explain the pounding in her chest. The strange, rising ache in her throat.
She should feel afraid. Confused. But all she felt… was warm.
The nurse’s words echoed faintly in her mind:
"He carried you all the way here in the storm. Barefoot. Bleeding. Wouldn’t let anyone else touch you. Cried when we wheeled you in."
She turned to look at him again—really look.
His shirt was torn, sleeves soaked from the rain. Blood clung stubbornly to his elbow, caked with dirt. His hair, disheveled and wild, stuck to his forehead. His eyes—those eyes—were rimmed red, hollow from lack of sleep… from grief?
How long had he waited?
Her heart swelled unexpectedly.
He didn’t seem to care about his own condition.
Only that she was breathing.
“You’re hurt,” she whispered, the words escaping before she could stop them.
He blinked, almost surprised she noticed. “It doesn’t matter.”
“But you’re bleeding…”
He shook his head. “You’re awake. That’s all that matters.”
Something trembled inside her. A fragile chord deep within—one that memory could not access, but the heart recognized.
She opened her mouth, unsure what would come out—until it did, raw and unfiltered.
“Are you crazy? You’re bleeding and soaked—and you didn’t even think to get yourself treated first?”
Her voice wasn’t angry—just shaken, and scared. She didn’t even realize the tears brimming in her eyes until the nurse turned, startled by the sudden outburst.
“Nurse! Can’t you see? He’s hurt too. Dress his wounds!”
The nurse blinked, then gave a gentle smile. “We tried. He refused until you were stable.”
She turned back to him. He wouldn’t meet her eyes—like he was afraid she’d see how much he was unraveling inside.
And then she saw it.
His legs. Red with scratches, bruised, streaked with dried blood. His ankles slightly swollen from the running, his feet torn where the gravel must have sliced into them.
How could anyone endure this? For me?
Her throat tightened.
“Why would you—”
“I couldn’t lose you again,” he murmured before she could finish.
She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.
All she knew was that her heart ached—not for herself, but for him. This stranger who claimed to be her husband… and yet, somehow, felt like home.
She turned her face away, willing herself not to cry. Her hand was still in his, and for the first time, she squeezed it with intention—not just instinct.
“You’re getting treated,” she whispered, resolute. “Or I won’t rest.”
He looked at her. His lips trembled in the faintest smile.
“Bossy,” he muttered.
She blinked. “What?”
His voice dropped to a soft whisper, as if speaking too loud would shatter the delicate thread between them.
“You’re still the same… getting bossy when worried.”
There was no sarcasm, no teasing—just warmth. A nostalgic ache. A kind of fragile happiness wrapped in grief.
She frowned gently, lowering her eyes, as if ashamed she didn’t remember the man sitting beside her—the one who carried wounds and smiles both for her.
“I… I don’t know why I said that. It just… happened.”
Nitin’s gaze softened further, and he leaned in slightly—not to invade her space, but as if he couldn’t help being drawn toward her.
“Maybe some parts of us never forget… even when memory does.”
His words weren’t just spoken. They landed—right into her chest like a whisper her soul already knew.
She swallowed hard, unable to look away from him. For a moment, it was quiet—except for the soft beeping of monitors and the thrum of rain still dancing against the hospital windows.
And then she did something she didn’t quite understand herself.
She reached out slowly… her fingers brushing against his injured hand. Her touch was featherlight, hesitant. But real.
“Will you let the nurse dress your wounds now?” she asked, voice tight with emotion.
He nodded wordlessly, almost like a child being scolded but secretly comforted.
She let out a shaky breath.
“Good. I may not remember you… but I can’t bear to see you hurt.”
His heart clenched.
To anyone else, it was a small thing.
But to him, it was everything. Proof that somewhere, behind the silence, she was still in there.
Write a comment ...