The smell of antiseptic lingered heavily in the air.
It was sharp. Unforgiving.
Just like reality.
Sasmita stood outside the ICU, her eyes fixed on the transparent glass, watching the still figure lying inside.
Her piusi.
Motionless.
Surrounded by machines that seemed to be doing more living than she was.
The steady beep… beep… beep… echoed softly, yet each sound pressed harder against Sasmita's chest.
"She's not responding."
The doctor's voice came from beside her—low, careful, almost reluctant.
Sasmita didn't turn immediately.
As if ignoring it for a second longer could change the meaning.
"What do you mean?" she asked finally, her voice calm… too calm.
The doctor hesitated.
"It means the current treatment isn't working."
A pause.
"We've tried everything within our capacity."
That word—everything—felt incomplete.
"There must be something else," Sasmita said, turning now, her gaze sharp.
"Another option. Another method."
The doctor lowered his eyes slightly.
"There is… but it's not easy."
Silence stretched between them.
"Say it."
"A specialist," he said.
"Someone who handles rare, critical cases."
Sasmita's eyes narrowed.
"Name."
A brief pause.
"Dr. Prem."
The name hung in the air.
Heavy.
Almost distant.
"He's considered one of the best," the doctor continued.
"But he doesn't take cases easily. Very selective. Very… unreachable."
Unreachable.
Sasmita let out a slow breath.
"Then reach him."
Hours later, the hospital waiting area had grown quieter.
Dim lights.
Cold chairs.
Endless silence.
Sasmita sat alone, her laptop open in front of her.
The glow of the screen reflected faintly in her tired eyes.
Search results filled the page.
Articles. Mentions. Limited profiles.
Every path led back to the same name.
Dr. Prem.
No direct contact.
No public schedule.
No visible presence.
Just reputation.
And distance.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
For a second—
She didn't type.
Because this wasn't just a mail.
This was hope.
Then slowly—
She began.
Subject: Urgent Medical Request
My aunt is in critical condition. All treatments have failed. I request you to please take this case.
She paused.
Reading it again.
Too formal.
Too distant.
She deleted a line.
Rewrote it.
I don't usually ask like this… but this is important.
Another pause.
Her fingers trembled slightly.
Then she added—
Please… help us.
She stared at the screen for a long moment.
Then clicked—
Send.
Silence followed instantly.
No sound.
No response.
Just the faint hum of the hospital lights.
Minutes passed.
Her eyes didn't move from the screen.
Waiting.
Refreshing.
Nothing.
An hour later—
Still nothing.
She leaned back slowly, her gaze drifting away from the laptop.
It wasn't rejection.
It was worse.
Being ignored.
Her fingers moved again.
Another mail.
Longer this time.
More detailed.
Condition reports.
Doctor statements.
Urgency.
Everything.
And at the end—
This is our last hope.
Send.
Somewhere else—
In a quiet room far from the hospital—
A phone screen lit up.
Aarav stood near the window, the city lights stretching endlessly behind him.
His expression calm.
Unreadable.
But his eyes—
Focused.
On the screen.
Two unread emails.
From her.
He opened the first one.
Read it slowly.
Every word.
Every pause.
Every hidden desperation.
Then the second.
Longer.
Heavier.
His fingers tightened slightly around the phone.
For a moment—
Something flickered in his eyes.
Not indifference.
Something deeper.
"Please… help us."
The words lingered.
Long after he finished reading.
He closed his eyes briefly.
As if pushing something back.
Controlling it.
Then—
He locked the phone.
Placed it aside.
And said nothing.
Back in the hospital—
Sasmita's screen remained unchanged.
Inbox empty.
No reply.
No acknowledgement.
No hope.
Her shoulders dropped slightly.
For the first time—
She felt it.
Not fear.
Not pressure.
Helplessness.
"I can handle everything…" she whispered under her breath.
Her voice barely audible.
"…but not this."
Her gaze slowly lifted toward the ICU again.
The machines still worked.
But time—
Didn't.
And somewhere—
The only person who could change everything—
Had already read her plea.
And chosen silence.