Before Time Runs out

Mira woke to the familiar throb in her bones—an ache she measured her mornings by. But even through the haze of pain, she sensed it immediately: the house was too still. Not peaceful. Hollow. The clock on her bedside table blinked 7:42 AM. The girls should’ve been arguing over the last paratha by now. Aarohi would be rolling her eyes. Meher would be complaining softly, trying to win the argument using innocence as a weapon. Mira pushed herself up. The silence followed her like a shadow. “Girls?” Her voice sounded dry. Small. She cleared her throat and called again. Nothing. She stepped into the hallway, her hand brushing the wall for balance. The air felt cold, as if someone had opened a window at dawn and forgotten to close it. The dining table was spotless. Too spotless. No open schoolbag. No books. No stainless-steel tiffin sitting half-packed. Mira checked the sink—empty. Even the tap looked untouched. Her heartbeat kicked up, slow but heavy. She moved to their room. Both beds were made. Not their usual half-tucked, half-wrinkled chaos—perfectly made, corners straight, blankets smooth. Aarohi hadn’t made her bed a single day in fourteen years. And Meher barely remembered which side her pillow belonged on. Mira’s breath thinned. She opened the cupboard. Clothes stacked perfectly. Too perfectly. Like someone had rearranged everything to erase signs of hurried movement. She whispered their names again. The quiet pressed harder. A small breeze brushed past her ear. The window was slightly open—just two fingers wide. Enough for someone to slip a hand through. Enough for someone to unlock it from the outside if they knew how. Her chest tightened. She checked the floor. No overturned chairs. No scattered notebooks. No sign of struggle. Which terrified her even more. She reached for Aarohi’s pillow, her fingers trembling. That was her daughter’s hiding place—letters, doodles, secrets… everything she didn’t want the world to see. Her hand closed around a piece of paper. It was folded twice. No envelope. The handwriting shaky, uneven—Aarohi’s, definitely, but rushed. “If something happens, don’t look for us.” Mira felt the world tilt for a second. She gripped the bedframe until the dizziness passed. Aarohi would never write this. Not unless she was scared. Not unless someone forced her. Or worse—someone made her believe Mira wasn’t safe. The phone on the table buzzed. CHEMO SESSION — TODAY, 9:30 AM. Mira stared at the reminder until her eyes stung. She turned it off. Her illness could wait. Death could wait. Everything could wait. Her daughters could not. She walked through the house again, slower this time, scanning every detail. The unlocked back gate. The faint smell of perfume that wasn’t hers. The light footprint on the kitchen floor—too big for Meher, too narrow for Aarohi. Someone else had been here. Outside, the neighborhood was waking up. Milkman’s cycle bell. Distant school van. Dogs barking. Ordinary sounds that suddenly felt threatening in their normalcy. Mira stepped out onto the porch, sunlight cutting across her face. For the first time in months, she felt something sharper than pain—purpose. Whoever thought illness would slow her down had underestimated a mother. She tucked the note into her pocket, closed the door behind her, and walked toward the only place she hoped would take her seriously. The police station. The trail had already started. And she would follow it, no matter what her body decided, no matter who stood in her way.