Chapter 9 Beneath the scars

Samantha’s POV

Fortunately, I didn’t remain unconscious for a long time. I woke to find myself in the car with Uncle Henry, He was driving the car. Water droplets dripping from his hair. Clothes soaked. His jaw clenched. Face red with fury. He was tightly gripping the wheels. His knuckles had turned white. It was as if he were trying to contain his anger.

" Uncle ", I tried to gain his attention, but it was in vain. He didn’t even look at my sides.

The whole ride was quiet.

The rain had finally ceased by the time Uncle Henry brought me back to Hannah’s place. The house was quiet, warm, almost too calm after the stormy chaos of the night. I sank into the couch, exhaustion weighing me down like wet clothes clinging to skin. I went for a quick change.

Aunty entered as soon as I came back, her eyes widening the moment she saw me wrapped in a blanket.

“Are you alright? You’re trembling. What happened?” Her voice carried the kind of worry that only a mother could summon.

“She was drenched.” Uncle Henry answered, evenly tucking the blanket tighter around me. His calm tone contrasted with the storm that was still brewing inside him.

Aunty frowned. “Don’t tell me the conference was held in an open field?” She asked moving her palm in a questioning manner.

“Uncle Henry ditched me,” I murmured before I could stop myself. The words slipped out like a betrayal, soft but sharp enough to hang in the air.

Henry’s shoulders stiffened. “It’s not like that, child. I would never do that to you.” His gaze turned toward the window, distant but guarded. I looked away too, unwilling to push the only pillar left in my life further away.

“I’ll make tea,” Aunty said gently, as though her voice alone could ease the thick tension that could be cut with a knife. She disappeared into the kitchen. Moments later, the faint crackle of an old vinyl record drifted through the silence.

A melody rose—soft, haunting, familiar. A Kashmiri folk song.

The sound pierced through me. My throat tightened, my fingers trembled against the blanket.

“Uncle… you know this song triggers my memories,” I whispered, my voice trembling and barely audible.

Uncle’s expression softened. “This was your parents’ favourite. It defined their love story. ” His words were fond, but for me, the song was a floodgate of memories that I couldn’t close.

The beautiful tune wrapped around me like smoke, blurring the edges of the room. The firelight flickered, shadows swaying across the walls, until Hannah’s warm home dissolved into another place, another time. My chest ached as if someone had reopened a wound long scarred over.

And suddenly, I was no longer here. I was back in Kashmir. The night I first met him.

Flashback Begins

Sanjana Pov

Kashmir was a song in itself—woven through snow-draped peaks, rippling lakes, and the hush of valleys that carried whispers of forgotten legends. The evenings in Srinagar always seemed suspended in time: the Dal Lake shimmering like a restless secret under fading twilight, the scent of kahwa drifting from teahouses, the air alive with both serenity and struggle.

My maternal uncle’s modest house leaned against the old bazaar road. Its shutters were chipped, its roof always leaking when the rains came. He worked tirelessly, but our lives never stretched beyond “just enough.” That was why I sang in cafés, weddings, small gatherings. Music was never luxury for me; it was survival. Between my journalism studies and the weight of our daily life, singing became the only way to breathe.

That night, the café on Residency Road felt unusually alive. Firewood crackled in a corner stove, golden lamps spilled soft light across polished tables, and the murmur of conversations created a gentle hum of belonging. Still, my palms were damp as I adjusted the microphone. Singing was always like undressing the soul—vulnerable, terrifying, yet liberating.

The first shaky notes left my lips, then steadied. I slipped into the melody, an old Kashmiri folk song—my mother’s song. Her voice still lingered in my memory, but tonight, it was mine alone. The café fell silent, every conversation dissolving until only the music remained.

And then, in the crowd, I noticed them.

Two men sat in the far corner near a fogged-up window. One—warm, smiling, undeniably Indian—sipped his tea with an easy air of belonging. The other, however, was different. Taller. Sharper. His chestnut hair splaying on his forehead, his deep blue ocean like eyes held a depth. His gaze wasn’t casual; it was consuming. He wasn’t just listening—he was searching, as though my song was a riddle only he could solve. They were tourist from foreign countries.

The smiling one nudged him playfully, murmuring something, but the taller man didn’t flinch. His eyes stayed locked with mine. For a heartbeat, I forgot the café, forgot my uncle, forgot survival. It felt as though I was singing only to him.

The last note lingered in the air like a sigh, and then—applause. Gentle, polite, fleeting. But I hardly heard it. My gaze was still tangled with his.

I gathered my notepad quickly, head down, intent on leaving before anyone could approach. Singing was not my dream. It was my means to survive.

But fate had other plans. A deep, steady voice stopped me at the doorway.

“You don’t just sing songs.”

I froze. Slowly, I turned. The taller man stood now, his companion a step behind him. His eyes didn’t waver.

“You live them.” Saying this he went away just the way he came.