Death was not the end

Manushi woke up to the sound of machines breathing for her. Beep. Beep. Beep. The ceiling above her was white—too white. The air smelled sharp and unfamiliar, like medicine and something sterile. Her head throbbed as if it didn’t belong to her body. She tried to move. Pain answered first. “Oh—she’s awake!” Voices rushed in before her thoughts could settle. Shapes leaned into her vision, blurry at first, then slowly forming into faces. An elderly man stood near the bed, his hair silver, eyes trembling with relief. Beside him was an elderly woman, her face lined with worry, her hands clasped tightly as if she had been praying for hours. And slightly behind them stood a young man—tall, handsome, his expression a mix of fear and hope, eyes fixed only on her. They were strangers. Yet they looked at her like she was their whole world. “Riya?” the elderly woman said softly, her voice shaking. “Riya, are you okay?” Manushi frowned. Riya? “Are you feeling pain anywhere?” the woman asked again, gently touching her hand. The touch was warm. Protective. Motherly. Her chest tightened for reasons she couldn’t explain. “I… I don’t know you,” Manushi whispered. Silence crashed into the room. The elderly man’s face drained of color. The young man stiffened. The woman’s eyes filled instantly with tears. “Riya, it’s me,” the woman said desperately. “Your mother.” Mother? Manushi’s heart began to race. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice shaking now. “My name is Manushi.” The young man stepped forward. “Riya, please don’t joke,” he said, trying to smile, but his voice broke halfway. “You scared us enough already.” Manushi shook her head. Panic crawled up her spine. “Please,” she said, breathing harder. “Can I see a mirror?” They exchanged glances—fearful, hesitant—but the woman nodded and handed her a small mirror from the bedside drawer. Manushi’s hands trembled as she lifted it. And then— Her world shattered. The face staring back at her was not hers. The girl in the mirror looked no older than nineteen. Her skin was fair and flawless. Her eyes—wide, expressive, painfully beautiful—held innocence Manushi had never seen in her own reflection. She looked untouched by cruelty, like someone who had been protected all her life. Pure. Ethereal. Fragile. Not the woman who had known betrayal. Not the woman who had died. The mirror slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the bed. “This isn’t me,” she whispered, tears blurring her vision. “This can’t be me.” The woman hugged her instantly, holding her like a child who had wandered too far. “It’s okay, Riya,” she cried. “You’re safe now. Everything will be okay.” Manushi froze in her arms. Safe? Her last memory burned in her mind— a knife, silence, betrayal. If this was rebirth— Then whose life was she living now? And why?