Episode 2 – The Boy with the Violin

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 —