STRINGS OF THE HEART

EPILOGUE - PART THREE: The Sweetest Harmony

Today... that was everything.

Aarav, now seven, carried the world in his eyes. He asked questions that left grownups blinking—about galaxies and gravity, kindness and cruelty, life before he was born. His curiosity was relentless, a force of nature. At breakfast, he'd be sketching rocket designs with cereal spoons still in his mouth; by dinner, he was outlining his plan to invent a space hospital "for aliens and people."

"I want to be an inventor-doctor-astronaut," he'd declare, chin up, eyes wide.

Arpita would smile at him the way she used to smile at the stars when she was a girl—hopeful and a little in awe. Vihaan, watching from the hallway, would whisper to himself, There I am. That same fire, that same stubborn desire to understand and reshape the world—that was Vihaan's gift to his son. But the clarity? The calm amidst the spark? That was all Arpita.

And then there was Ira.

Five years old and full of sunlit mischief, Ira danced through the house like joy on two feet. She made daisy crowns for breakfast and dramatic speeches at bedtime. One moment, she was singing in made-up languages to her stuffed animals; the next, she was wrapping bandages around their arms with the precision of a born surgeon.

"I want to be a singer-princess-surgeon," she'd declare seriously, hands on her tiny hips. "And also run the whole world. But only on Sundays. Because Saturday is for painting and Monday is too boring."

She had Arpita's steel tucked into her softness. She had Vihaan's rhythm hidden in her laugh.

The two of them—Aarav and Ira—could turn a quiet hallway into a theater, a storm, a haven. They fought like tides and forgave like spring. They made up dances. They built time machines out of bedsheets. They whispered stories under covers at night, flashlight between them, inventing a universe where everyone got to come home safe.

Sometimes, Arpita would stand at the kitchen door, mug in hand, watching them. And her eyes would sting with the kind of fullness that couldn't be named.

Vihaan once told her, after a particularly chaotic morning of missing socks and spilled orange juice, "They're the best song I've ever written."

And he meant it.

Because what they had created—these two wild, kind, brilliant children—weren't just their legacy.

They were the quiet, unintentional symphony Arpita and Vihaan had been composing all along.
A melody of love, resilience, chaos, and choice.
A chorus that sounded like home.

Their center for mental wellness had blossomed far beyond the modest beginnings in Berlin and Mumbai. It now had branches in three countries—each shaped by local culture, rooted in community care, and guided by a quiet revolution: compassion over chaos, healing over hustle. The urgency that once lit every email and late-night meeting had softened into something steadier. The mission remained, but it no longer burned them out. It nourished them, like slow fire warming a home.

The initiative had become a living organism—growing not through pressure, but purpose.

Arpita had learned to let go of control in the best way. She no longer needed to be everywhere at once. She mentored new leaders now—young doctors, therapists, and grassroots volunteers who reminded her of the girl she once was: fierce, overwhelmed, aching to fix everything. She operated once or twice a month—just enough to keep her hands sharp and her soul connected. Each surgery still left her breathless. Not from fear—but from awe. The body's resilience. The quiet trust of patients. The privilege of helping someone stay alive, not just clinically—but fully.