The automatic tap clicked off with a sharp drip... drip... drip. The airport washroom was cold — not just in temperature, but in silence. Smiksha leaned over the sink, her trembling hands struggling to stay still. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, not recognising the girl who stared back.

Red eyes. Smudged kajal. A face pale from the weight of unwanted truths. And beneath it all — a storm. A voice that had been choked for too long.

Behind the bathroom door, the world moved. Boarding announcements echoed through the speakers. Laughter, rushing footsteps, dragging suitcases. Life was going on. But inside, Smiksha’s world had collapsed in one phone call. One sentence.

“Shaadi pakki kar di hai.”

That was it. No conversation. No opinion. No dream considered. Just a statement — like a death sentence disguised as a future.

She had overheard the conversation just minutes ago while walking behind her parents. They weren’t even trying to hide it.

“Ladka foreign mein settled hai. Business karta hai. Achhi family hai. Smiksha ko samjha lenge, samajhdaar hai.”

Samjha lenge?

Was that what she had become — someone who could be convinced, adjusted, bent?

She splashed water on her face again. Cold. Sharp. It reminded her she was still real. Still here. Still… resisting.

She looked into her own eyes again. That girl — the one staring back — she wasn’t weak. She had dreams. She had a voice. A voice that had sung in school competitions, that had narrated stories to her younger cousin, that had argued with teachers when injustice happened, that had once whispered to herself under the stars — “Main kuch banungi. Main kisi ki likhi hui kahani nahi banungi.”

And yet, here she was.

Flashback:

A week ago, Smiksha was in her room — her diary open, pen dancing across the page.

"One day, I’ll board a plane not because someone tells me to... but because I have a destination of my own."

She had planned it all. After her exams, she would secretly apply for an art fellowship. She wanted to learn voice acting. Animation. Visual storytelling. She wanted to give sound to things that didn’t speak — a feather falling, the silence of pain, the heartbeat before a confession.

But her parents had other plans.

Marry. Settle. Quiet down. Disappear.

The automatic air dryer burst into life as someone exited a stall. Smiksha stepped into one, bolting the door shut. She wasn’t ready to face anyone. Not now. Not with swollen eyes and a heart that felt like it had been carved out and left bleeding.

She took out her phone and opened her gallery. There was a video — from a school performance. She was on stage, narrating a monologue about a girl who had lost her voice. How ironic. She turned up the volume.

"They said her silence was graceful,

Those loud girls were shameful.

So she buried her voice…

Until one day, she forgot where she left it."

Smiksha couldn’t finish watching it. She slammed the phone down on the toilet roll stand and covered her mouth to stop the sob.

Was that going to be her life?

A forgotten voice. A buried dream. A girl remembered only through wedding photos.

She pulled out a tiny silver pendant from her pocket. A gift from her grandmother — shaped like a quill. “Likhti rehna,” she had said once, “Tera kal tere lafzon mein basa hai.”

But now it felt more like a memory from a different life.

She thought of her friend Nia.

“Tu pagal hai,” Nia used to laugh, “Tujhe har cheez mein kahani dikhti hai!”

Yes. Maybe she was pagal.

Maybe she was still crazy enough to believe she could write her own ending.

She unlocked the stall door slowly, walked back to the sink, and opened her journal — the same one that had travelled with her for two years.

On the first page, it said:

"Don’t speak unless your voice shakes the world."

Today, her voice was shaking.

Not the world — but her own soul.

She turned to the next blank page and began writing. Her hand still shook, but she didn’t stop.

"August 22.

This is where it began. Or maybe this is where it fell apart.

My name is Smiksha.

And I am not running away from home.

I’m running away from silence.

This is not an escape. This is a reclamation."

She wrote like a woman possessed. Her pen moved faster than her thoughts. Memories flooded in — her first award, the first time she heard applause, the first time she cried alone, the first time she felt her voice meant something.

Back in the terminal, her parents were still waiting, scrolling their phones, probably messaging the boy’s family, planning things. She could already imagine the wedding hall, the fake smiles, the heavy lehenga, and the tight bangles that cut into her skin.

And then — a life of cooking, compromise, and being “a good girl”.

But what about her?

What about the girl who wanted to create characters who would outlive her?

What about the girl who dreamed of animating a world where girls ruled kingdoms and married when they chose, or maybe never?

What about the girl who wasn't ready to be given away like a gift?

She looked up at the mirror again, and this time — she smiled. Just a little. But it was real.

A voice inside her said, “You still have time. This is not the end.”

And she believed it.

She zipped up her bag, fixed her hair, and stepped outside the bathroom.

The terminal felt louder, brighter. But she was different now. A little braver.

She wasn’t sure where this path would go — maybe she’d board the plane, maybe she wouldn’t.

But whatever came next…

It would be her choice. Her voice.

And that made all the difference.

End of Episode 1.

The cold airport air brushed against Smiksha’s skin as she stepped out of the washroom. Her steps were slow, but her heart had made a decision — She would not give in to silence anymore.

She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, took a deep breath, and looked around.

That’s when she heard it.

A sound — soft, melancholic, almost invisible among the airport noise.

A violin.

Not from a speaker. Not a ringtone. A live sound. Real. Fragile. Beautiful.

Her feet moved before her mind caught up.

Just a few steps ahead, near the glass wall that overlooked the runway, sat a boy. Alone. Playing a violin.

He looked... unreal.

Branded sweatshirt. Casual, expensive sneakers. Jet-black hair that looked like it had been styled without trying. A silver ring in one ear. A soft blue light from the window fell across his face as he played.

But what truly caught her was his expression.

He wasn't smiling. He wasn’t performing.

It was like he was talking to someone invisible — or mourning something only he could feel.

Smiksha froze.

Something about the music made her throat tighten.

Not because it was sad — but because it sounded exactly like how she felt inside.

For a moment, the world slowed down.

Then —

He looked up.

Right at her.

Their eyes locked. Not in some dramatic romantic way. It was sharper, deeper — like he knew she was listening with her soul, not her ears.

The music stopped.

He tilted his head slightly, as if curious. Then, without a word, he carefully placed his violin back in its sleek black case.

And walked away.

Just like that.

Smiksha stood still for a few seconds. A part of her wanted to run after him and ask,

"Tumne mere andar ka dard kaise suna?"

But instead, she turned away.

Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe it meant nothing.

Or maybe… it meant everything.

Boarding gate announcement.

Her flight was called.

She joined the line, eyes still heavy, but mind strangely calm. She had made her choice — she’d go. But not with acceptance. With awareness. She would not let go of her voice, not again.

Seat number 17A.

Window seat. She liked that.

She slid into her seat, stared out at the wing through the glass. Clouds waited like soft mountains, ready to hold her confusion.

Just then, a shadow fell over the aisle. Someone was taking the seat beside her.

17B.

She glanced sideways… and her heart almost stopped.

It was him.

The violin boy.

The same hair. Same clothes. Same expression. Except now — he smiled, very lightly, almost like a secret.

“Hi,” he said, as if they'd spoken before.

Smiksha blinked.

He didn’t seem surprised. Not even a little. It was like he knew she would be there. Like this was already written.

Before she could speak, he added —

“You’re not running away.”

“You’re arriving.”

She stared at him.

"Kya?” her voice cracked.

He turned to look at her, eyes calm, voice clear.

“People who run away don’t carry journals full of fire. You… you’re coming into yourself. You just don’t see it yet.”

She didn’t know what to say. Her journal was in her lap, half-opened.

How did he know?

Before she could ask, the plane began to taxi. He leaned back, closed his eyes, as if that conversation was over — or didn’t need words.

The flight continued in silence.

Smiksha couldn’t stop glancing at him. His calmness wasn’t arrogance. It was like… he belonged somewhere else. Like his soul was older than his face.

She finally spoke, hesitating —

“You play beautifully.”

He opened one eye.

“I wasn’t playing. I was speaking.”

She frowned.

“Speaking?”

He smiled. “Violin is a voice, too. Just like yours. Only difference is, I know how to use mine. You’re just remembering yours.”

Goosebumps.

This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t coincidence.

Before she could question further, he turned to her fully.

“Tell me, Smiksha…”

She flinched. “How do you—”

"You wrote your name on the cover of your journal.” He tapped it lightly. “But that’s not the name you’re becoming, is it?”

Silence.

She didn’t understand what he meant. And yet… somewhere inside, she did.

The flight touched the clouds.

Turbulence shook the plane — but Smiksha didn’t notice.

Because she was staring at a boy who had spoken to her in violin notes before he spoke in words… and who somehow knew things about her she had never said aloud.

Before landing, he said one last thing —

“You’re going to face a lot of noise. But don’t forget — your voice was never meant to be quiet. It was meant to lead.”

“Lead where?” she asked, breathlessly.

He looked at her with the softest expression yet.

“To those who lost theirs.”

The seatbelt sign blinked off. Passengers stood. Luggage lifted.

Smiksha blinked. Turned to speak again.

But the boy was gone.

No trace.

No name. No violin. Not even the sound of his steps leaving.

Just the echo of his words in her head.

And for the first time in a long time —

Smiksha smiled.

End of Episode 2.

The car cruised silently through the heart of Mumbai, tinted windows hiding the girl who the world believed was missing. Smiksha sat with her dark sunglasses on, a silk scarf wrapped neatly around her head, lips pressed in a line, but her eyes—hidden as they were—carried storms. Her phone buzzed with news alerts and messages, but she ignored them all. Only one thought echoed in her heart: I need to breathe.

Dora, her secretary, was sitting beside her in complete silence. She knew better than to ask anything right now. She had been with Smiksha long enough to know when to stay quiet. Smiksha wasn’t just her boss. She was a secret—a living mystery known to the world as "Twinkle," a billionaire singer whose identity had never been revealed. Her voice was loved in every corner of the world, but her face was a ghost in fame’s castle.

Today, however, Smiksha wasn't thinking about her stardom. She was thinking about him. The boy at the airport. The one who played the violin like he was speaking to her soul. The one who said, “Tumhari aawaz mein kuch hai… kuch aisa jo duniya ko hilaa sakta hai.”

“Dora…” she finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.

Dora turned, instantly attentive. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Us ladke ka pata chala?”

Dora shook her head slowly. “Airport authorities denied access to the security footage. But I found one small clue. He had a ticket under the name ‘Ali B.’ No surname. No ID match.”

“Ali…” Smiksha whispered the name like it was a secret meant only for her ears. Her heart skipped a beat. She clenched her hands in her lap. Could it be just a coincidence?

The car came to a slow halt in front of a towering glass building—25 floors of power, wealth, and absolute secrecy. This was the heart of her empire. TENNO Corporation—an AI-tech and media firm that partnered with the biggest governments, artists, and companies worldwide. And yet, not a single soul in the media knew who owned it.

Smiksha stepped out. The security guards bowed silently, and the biometric doors slid open. She walked with the elegance of a queen, but inside her chest, her heart was pounding.

The elevator ride to Level Z was quiet except for the faint hum of technology. This was a level accessible only to her and Dora. It housed her music lab, her innovation room, her sanctuary. As the doors opened, she took a deep breath. The smell of lavender and cedarwood welcomed her.

Dora followed her inside and placed a thick, black folder on the central table.

“This is the Dragon Corporation file, and this,” Dora tapped the cover, “is about Mr. Ali Burnwal.”

Smiksha stared at the folder. For a moment, her hand trembled before she picked it up. Inside was a blurred photograph—back-facing, a young man in a crisp black suit, holding a violin.

Her breath caught.

“It’s him.”

Dora nodded. “We double-checked the flight manifest. He boarded your flight. He sat just two seats away. The same boy.”

Smiksha sat down slowly. Her past 24 hours had been an emotional rollercoaster. First, the airport washroom breakdown after overhearing her arranged marriage plan. Then that encounter with the violin boy. And now this—realizing that the same stranger was the CEO of Dragon Corporation, the most mysterious and fastest-growing rival company in Asia. A company that, just two days ago, had approached TENNO for a historic collaboration.

“Get me everything,” she said firmly. “His history, his vision, his team, his music background, everything. And prepare for a meeting.”

Dora looked hesitant. “You want to meet him as a Twinkle?”

“No.” Smiksha stood up, her chin lifted. “I’ll meet him as me. As Smiksha.”

“Understood,” Dora replied.

As she left the room, Smiksha paused in front of a grand wall of glass that overlooked the Arabian Sea. Her reflection stared back. She pulled off her glasses. The girl in the reflection had tired eyes, a cracked heart, and yet… an unbreakable will.

That night, Smiksha couldn’t sleep. The city lights blinked outside her window, but her thoughts were in the past. Why did that boy feel so familiar? Why did his words feel like they had been written in the deepest part of her diary?

In a flash of emotion, she got out of bed and walked to her rooftop garden. It was midnight, the air was cool and salty. Here, surrounded by night-blooming flowers and her favorite wind chimes, she felt safe.

She picked up her old notebook. The one where she wrote her first lyrics. Flipping through it, her eyes landed on an old poem:

“One day a melody will meet its match, A storm in silence, a violin’s catch.”

She stared at the words. She had written this when she was fifteen.

Was this fate?

The next morning, Dora walked into her chamber with urgency.

“Ma’am, Dragon Corporation has responded. Mr. Ali Burnwal will be in Mumbai tomorrow. He has accepted the meeting. 11 AM sharp.”

Smiksha nodded.

She got up, walked to her closet—not the one filled with glittery costumes, but the one with sharp suits, designer elegance, and quiet power. Today, she wouldn’t dress as the girl people sang for. Today, she would dress as the girl who built an empire in silence.

And as she looked into the mirror one last time, she whispered to herself:

“You are not just a voice. You are the storm behind the silence.”

The next day, as she waited in the grand conference room of TENNO, heart racing, the clock struck eleven.

The door opened.

And there he stood.

Mr. Ali Burnwal. Young. Calm. Charismatic. Eyes that held galaxies. And in his hand… again… was the violin case.

For a moment, time froze. Both of them just stared.

He smiled.

“So we meet again... Miss...?”

Smiksha extended her hand.

“Smiksha. Just Smiksha.”

He took it.

And something shifted in the air.

And something shifted in the air.

Episode 3 Ends.