SHE WHO ASCENDS

WHISPERS IN THE PINES

Adyaa didn’t suddenly become warm. She didn’t cry out apologies or throw herself into Tara’s arms.

But she let Tara feed her soup.

She let Rajeev hold her hand.

And one evening, when Tara brought her a simple bunch of Hibiscus—the same flowers Aarti used to place on the shrine—Adyaa took them without protest.

In the weeks that followed, Tara stayed by her side, helping her with stretches, encouraging her through rehab, reminding her to breathe deeply, to heal slowly. After years of dark clouds, their family was sitting contentedly and peacefully.

“YOU DON’T HAVE TO PROVE ANYTHING TO ANYONE!,” Tara said one day, massaging her shoulder. “I’M NOT TRYING TO,” Adyaa replied. “I JUST… I DON’T KNOW WHO I AM WITHOUT THE FIGHT.” Tara smiled. “THEN MAYBE IT’S TIME TO FIND OUT.”

After some days, Adyaa was a little capable to move.

Tara would spend her mornings in the lab she'd helped build inside the old garden shed, experimenting with essential oils, preparing her salves. Adyaa, still recovering from her injury, taught light self-defense workshops at the community center in town, her movements slower, more deliberate, but still filled with the same fire.

In the evenings, they cooked together. Tara with her meticulous recipes and measured dashes of spice; Adyaa with bold improvisations and terrible jokes. Rajeev often watched them from his chair by the window, the pages of his botanical journal turning slowly as if he feared waking from a dream.

“I NEVER THOUGHT I’D SEE THIS,” he whispered once to no one in particular. “AARTI... YOU’D BE PROUD.”

By all appearances, the sisters were whole again.

But healing, like fire, is never without smoke.

One morning, Tara found a crow sitting at the base of the shrine outside, its black eyes fixed on her. It didn’t caw or fly away even when she came close. She remembered something her mother once said.

> “WHEN A CROW STAYS TOO LONG, IT CARRIES A MESSAGE.”

That night, she dreamed of a forest cloaked in fog, where she chased a flicker of light that always slipped just out of reach. She awoke with a start, sweat slicking her skin despite the chill.

When she mentioned it at breakfast, Adyaa only shrugged. “PROBABLY YOUR BRAIN MIXING ESSENTIAL OILS WITH GHOST STORIES.” But Rajeev’s hand paused over his tea. “YOUR MOTHER USED TO HAVE DREAMS LIKE THAT BEFORE SOMETHING CHANGED,” he said quietly. They didn’t speak of it again. But the silence felt different after that.

Tuesday morning was thick with mist, and Tara’s garden was drenched in dew. She had planned to meet Adyaa at the workshop by 10 a.m. They were going to host a special session for schoolgirls—combining a chemistry demonstration on stress-relief sprays with a self-defense routine. But when Tara arrived, the center was empty. The door was unlocked. Adyaa’s duffel bag lay on the bench, half-zipped. Her gloves were still in the corner.

At first, Tara assumed she’d just stepped out. But the minutes stretched. She called her phone. It rang, unanswered. She texted. Nothing.

By noon, she was pacing.

By sunset, she and Rajeev had called every friend, every hospital, every possible place Adyaa could’ve gone.

~No one had seen her.

The next morning, Tara was gone. At least, that’s what the townspeople said.

Word spread that Tara had vanished—just like her mother once had. The people whispered: “SHE FOLLOWED IN HER MOTHER’S FOOTSTEPS.” “SHE WAS ALWAYS... DIFFERENT.” “DID YOU SEE THE SHRINE? THE HIBISCUS FLOWERS WERE SCORCHED.”

Rajeev, confused and heartbroken, was inconsolable. “BOTH MY DAUGHTERS,” he murmured, staring out the same window where he once watched them cook. “GONE LIKE SMOKE.” The police searched the forest. Volunteers combed the rivers. Only one slipper was found, resting beside a trail near the edge of the ravine—the same place where Aarti’s car was found all those years ago.

~It was Tara’s. Or so everyone thought.

Three days later, a package arrived at the Sharma house. No return address. Just Rajeev’s name written in neat, careful script.

Inside: a single bottle of lavender oil, a worn boxing glove keychain, and a note.

> “SHE’S NOT THE ONE MISSING. LOOK AGAIN.”

Rajeev handed the note to the officer, confused. They reopened the case.

In Tara’s lab, nothing was missing. All her ingredients were in place. Her notebooks were open, her teacup half-drunk. The salves she’d been testing were still labeled and fresh.

It was Tara who cracked it. Because she hadn’t gone missing.

She had simply gone silent.

She had gone into hiding.

The day she found Adyaa’s trail cold, Tara stopped trusting the police. She began investigating herself, retracing Adyaa’s steps. Using her knowledge of chemicals, she uncovered faint traces of chloroform on the strap of Adyaa’s duffel. A powdery residue on the doorknob—crushed valerian root, often used to induce drowsiness.

Someone had taken her sister.

But why make it seem like Tara was the one who vanished?

As thunder cracked above the pines and shadows swallowed the trail, Tara stood with her flashlight flickering in one hand and the mangalsutra tight in the other.

Somewhere, Adyaa was alive.

And someone wanted Tara to stop looking. But flame or sky, they were never meant to be separated. And Tara would burn down the world to bring her sister back.