"Uski khamoshi mein bhi,

Kahani racha tha.

Aur shayad mein uss kahani ka

sirf ek hissa tha"

-Sheya

(Translation:

"Even within her silence,

a story was being woven.

And perhaps,

I was only a fragment of that story.")

Author's Pov

The evening air among the mountains smelled of burning fuel and scorched metal. Black smoke spiraled upward from the overturned car, dissolving into the chilly mountain dusk. The thick, suffocating reek of leaking petrol hung heavy over the quiet highway.

The amber liquid seeped continuously from the ruptured tank, spreading a dark puddle across the cracked asphalt. The air vibrated with the incessant, jarring wail of the car's horn and the urgent, monotonous pulse of the emergency beacon.

Inside the crushed cabin, two figures hung upside down, trapped by their seatbelts—straps designed to promise safety, now turned into inescapable bindings. The man and woman were both in their early thirties.

Gasping for air, the man extended a trembling hand toward his wife, who hung lifelessly beside him. He fought to reach her buckle, desperate to grant her freedom even if he could not save himself, but his fingers shook violently, and his vision was beginning to fray at the edges.

The woman remained unresponsive. He shook his head sharply, trying to clear the haze creeping over his mind, and gently nudged her shoulder.

He pleaded silently for any sign of life, but she remained still—testing his patience, just as she always had in playful times past. He pulled against his own belt, but the twisted metal frame had pierced his abdomen, pinning him firmly in place.

Her hands dangled limply above her head, her fingers resting lightly against the overturned roof. Near her hand, her phone screen suddenly illuminated, casting a pale glow across the darkened interior.

The lockscreen displayed a photograph: three hands resting together on a soft white blanket—a newborn infant's tiny hand, tenderly wrapped in her mother's, and enveloped at last by the father's larger palm.

Tears welled in the man's eyes at the sight of his small family.

The sanctuary he had built with so much devotion, now shattering in a matter of moments.

With a hesitation born of dread, he pressed his thumb against his wife's wrist, seeking a pulse he had avoided checking until now. Deep down, he had already known the truth. Her pulse didn't flutter.

She was gone.

He glanced through the shattered side window. Further down the road stood the shadowy silhouette of the truck that had struck them; scattered on the gravel lay his own smashed phone, fragmented just like his heart. The truck driver was nowhere in sight.

He reached out and picked up his wife's phone—a device he had never felt the need to inspect in life. He entered the passcode she had recited to him a hundred times before: 04022000. The birthday of their little angel.

The screen unlocked directly to a messaging thread. A new voicemail had arrived from her friend, who was watching their daughter while they were away on their drive.

He pressed play. A soft, babbling voice floated into the heavy air of the wreckage—a child's first earnest attempts at language. "Mama... pap..." In the background, a man's gentle voice—the friend's—could be heard softly guiding her, encouraging her to pronounce the words correctly.

A single tear slipped down the man's cheek. Their daughter was learning to speak, but he was not there to hear it. He would never hold her again, nor spin her through the air to hear her laughter.

They would not be there to watch her grow.

Drawing a ragged breath, he recorded a reply, his voice raspy and broken against the backdrop of the blaring horn.

"I am always with you, my child. Perhaps not in body, but always in spirit. We will both be walking beside you with every step you take." His voice fractured on the word both, but he pushed forward. "Your mother used to say she would always be my shield. And I promised her I would never let us be separated. Perhaps that is what happened today... she stayed by my side to protect me... and I will keep my promise to her, by leaving alongside her."

He swallowed hard, fighting the surge of grief in his chest. "I thought I would be the one to answer when you eventually asked, 'How did you meet Mom?' But it seems that story will have to wait for another lifetime."

A faint, sorrowful smile flickered across his lips.

He paused, taking a shuddering breath. "I gave you so little time, didn't I? Please forgive me. You are strong, just like your mother. You have her playful spirit. But do not fear—you are my daughter, the strongest of all. Live a long and beautiful life. Goodbye..."

His voice faded into silence. He tapped the blue send icon, watching as the notification confirmed the message had delivered. He had always called his daughter maa—a loving title for a mother — because as an orphan, he had never known a mother's embrace until his daughter brought that tenderness into his life.

Slowly, he placed the phone down and turned his gaze back to his wife.

He stared at her features in the dim light. Her eyes were closed, her lips curved into a faint, serene expression—almost as if she were listening to his every word.

He had conquered so much in life, yet he had lost to time.

He offered her a quiet, heartbreaking smile.

"Will you be my wife again, my rose?" he whispered, his voice barely audible beneath the persistent hum of the car horn.

A final proposal.

A final question.

For this lifetime.

No words came in response—only a profound, solemn quiet that carried the entire weight of their love and sorrow. With trembling fingers, he reached out, gently caressing her cold cheek, before closing his eyes one last time.

In the darkness behind his eyelids, vivid memories flooded his mind.

He saw a girl barely twenty years old, draped in a light pink saree patterned with white flowers, the soft fabric floating gently in the breeze.

He remembered the exact moment they first met during their university days.

He remembered her tear-filled eyes during his proposal—the one she had jokingly teased as being far too dramatic.

He could almost feel the gentle warmth of her breath against his skin, just as it had been every night they slept side by side.

He remembered her radiant smile the night she whispered the news of her pregnancy into his ear.

He remembered the overwhelming joy that filled their hearts when they held their baby girl for the very first time.

He saw their daughter's wobbly first steps, her tiny body struggling to stand tall.

She was his final seven minutes—the life his soul chose to replay before the end, precisely as he had always wished. And in every lifetime to come, his heart would choose her and their child again.

moments later, a sharp spark ignited the leaking fuel, and the car erupted into a brilliant column of fire. The flames rose high into the night air, reaching toward the mountain peaks as if carving a path for two souls to ascend together, while thick smoke drifted slowly into the starlit sky.

--

I am not crying, are you?

Ever heard of seven minutes theory, lovelies?💔