Aanya Mehra always believed she had time. Time to slam doors, time to roll her eyes on concern, time to one day refer to her stepmother as 'Maa.' She was smart, snappy, sarcastic, serious and deeply private. Losing her mother at a young age had carved a quiet hardness into her. She wore her grief like a shield, and her rebellion like armor — not to fight the world, but to protect what was left of herself.
It was a Thursday morning at school, and the hallways were filled with lightness—except for Aanya. She passed by some girls from her class loitering outside the school auditorium waving their hands around. "Shruti! Hi! It's me!" They didn't even raise their heads. Not even a blink. She felt like nobody saw her. A strange panic welled up in her chest. She hurried into the teachers' lounge and saw her class teacher, Mrs. Kapoor, on the phone.
Yes, the girl had fallen off the staircase by the library. It was an accident, but— Aanya came to a standstill.
Fell off the staircase?
She retreated.
Who?
Mrs. Kapoor went on, not realizing Aanya was there. "The parents are still shocked. Such a brilliant girl. Aanya was one of our top students."
Aanya could not breathe. She slowly retreated out of the room, her head reeling. What was happening? What is happening?
Again, she found herself alone. No one had spoken to her for days, she shouted at friends, teachers, even strangers. No answers.
Her voice wasn't heard.
Her existence wasn't regarded.
Then came the worst news. One morning, while walking through the main corridor, Aanya froze.
At the end of the hallway stood a small table covered in a white cloth. A diya flickered beside a framed photograph.
She walked closer—and her world stopped.
It was her.
Her school portrait from last year.
She remembered that day, though the details were a bit blurry. It had been just after the inter-house quiz, which her team had won. Her cheeks were still flushed from the excitement, her hair slightly messy from rushing around, and her smile—genuine, wide, full of life. In the photo, her eyes sparkled like they were full of dreams. She wasn’t trying to pose or look perfect—she looked happy. Truly happy.
Around the frame were fresh marigolds. Some had begun to droop.
A small placard below the picture read:
“In Loving Memory of Aanya Mehra (2007–2025)”
She stared. Breathless.
It was her, Her face, Her name, A tribute, A goodbye.
She was dead.
There was only one person who still seemed to sense her, feel her presence, Her stepmother.
Aanya saw her at the dining room table sitting silently, clutching her child's old diary.
Aanya never really accepted her. Aanya was still mourning her biological mom and had created walls. Walls constructed of cold glares and distance.
She always believed there was time. Time to rebel. Time to heal. Time to possibly love this woman who was still attempting.
"Why are you speaking to me?" Aanya whispered, questioning if she was hallucinating.
Her stepmother did not raise her gaze. "Because you haven't left, beta."
Aanya blinked. "You. you can see me?"
Her stepmother's voice cracked. "Not see. But I know you are here."
"How?"
There was silence.
Then she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "Because your feet. still leave stains."
Aanya glanced down. Her feet were bare and smeared with dried blood—dark crusted and congealed—adhering to the floor.
Every step made faint reddish-brown prints.
Her stepmother had been explaining to her all along about how her footprints were different. Flat arches, special curve—anybody could identify them from another person's.
Aanya blinked away tears. She saw the gray circles around her stepmother's eyes for the first time, the trembling in her hands, the soft hush of quiet prayers repeat every night. She was grieving. And yet, she was still stretching out to her.
The following day Aanya returned to the staircase of the library.
The landing was vacant.
A chill descended upon her as she unconsciously recalled…
The rushing bell.
The wet shoe.
The phone in her fingers.
The sudden twist.
The darkness.
It wasn't murder.
It wasn't premeditated.
It was simply a moment—a slip. A smashed skull. A lost beat.
Her death was a consequence. Of rushing, of being absent, of one reckless step.
But on a deeper level, it was the result of something much heavier—
Of never saying thank you.
Of never addressing her as Maa.
Of never hugging her back.
And yet, the one person who still felt her—was the one she pushed away the most.
She went back to her that evening, who sat lighting a diya in front of her picture. The dancing flame illuminated her stepmother's face in golden light, and a soft radiance fell on weeping eyes that had spilled more tears than any could know.
"Maa," she whispered.
It slipped slowly, hesitantly—like it had waited the entire life to be uttered. The very first time she had ever addressed her that way without protest. A name she had denied out of pride, confusion, and rage.
Her stepmother faltered. Her hands shook. The diya flame flickered.
"I don't want to leave you," Aanya whispered, her voice shaking with all that she should have uttered when she was alive.
Her mother did not answer straight away. Her mouth trembled as she folded her hands, eyes closed against the wave of tears she had learned to suppress.
Her stepmother didn’t reply immediately. Her lips quivered as she folded her hands, eyes shut against the tide of tears she had learned to hold back.
“If you’ve found your peace, beta… go,” she whispered. "Don't be trapped. You’re not meant to stay here in pain. I’ll be okay. I promise.”
Aanya knelt beside her. Aanya dropped to her knees beside her. Her shape wavered like candlelight, and for the first time—her mother's hand stroked her hair. It was warm. Real. Forgiving.
Aanya shut her eyes. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice shattering under the pressure of belated realizations, of love grasped too late.
She pressed her forehead gently to her stepmother’s knee, letting go of every shard of anger, guilt, and unspoken, unconfessed love.
With the break of dawn, the bloody footprints vanished.
She was free at last.
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