Bound by Ashes

Chapter 1 : Ashes of the operating room

Her chest tightened. She stepped away from the corridor traffic, thumb swiping quickly.

"Hello?"

"Dr. Singhania, I'm sorry to disturb—"

"Is Rahi okay?"

"She's... she's fine. No fever. But she was very quiet today. She kept asking if you'd forgotten her play. It's in two days."

Ruhanika closed her eyes. That guilt, always simmering beneath the surface, boiled over.

"I didn't forget," she lied softly. "Tell her... I'll be there."

"I'll let her know. She misses you."

"I miss her too," Ruhanika whispered, but the call had already ended.

She slid the phone back into her pocket. The corridor suddenly felt colder.

---

Later That Night – Her On-Call Room

The on-call room was dim, sterile, and suffocatingly silent. One steel cot. One rusted fan. One pair of blood-stained scrubs folded neatly on the chair.

Ruhanika sat on the edge of the bed, her face in her hands.

She hadn't eaten in over twelve hours. The cafeteria coffee still sat untouched on the side table, now cold and bitter like most of her days.

From her coat pocket, she pulled out a crumpled piece of folded paper. A drawing.

Stick figures.

One tall. One tiny.

Both had hearts floating between them.

"Me and Mumma at my play."

Scrawled in pink crayon. Signed: Rahi, Age 2.

Ruhanika traced her thumb over it. Her throat tightened.

Outside these hospital walls, she was a stranger to most of the world. Tabloids had once called her the "Ice Surgeon" after a video of her walking out of an OR stoic, moments after losing a young girl during surgery.

But they didn't know that she hadn't cried because she'd forgotten how to cry.

Because tears were a luxury she couldn't afford—not when her hands were still stained with the blood of children she couldn't save.

She lay back, still in her scrubs, and stared at the ceiling.

Tomorrow, another battle would begin.

Another emergency.

Another child.

And she would show up—sleepless, grieving, stitched together by duty and guilt.

But for tonight, she closed her eyes, whispering one name like a prayer into the dark.

"Rahi..."

Scene 2:

The hum of Ruhanika's car engine was the only sound in the early morning silence as she drove through the misty lanes of Mumbai. The city hadn't fully awakened yet, and neither had she. Her body ached from the relentless 16-hour surgery the day before, but there was no room for rest. There never was. Her daughter, her world, her anchor — Rahi — was waiting.

As she turned into the narrow street leading to "Little Lilies Daycare," the building came into view, painted in pastel shades of yellow and green. The walls were adorned with cheerful murals of cartoon animals and clouds. A stark contrast to the sterile whites and greys of the hospital.