Sakshi moved through the kitchen, the soft clinking of her bangles against the steel pots created a melody that had become the only sound in her life since the past few months.

She was a woman of gentle smiles and quiet strength, the kind of person who seemed to carry a sense of peace with her. As an army wife, she had learned early on that silence wasn't just the absence of noise, it was a space she had to fill with love and patience.

She peeked into the bedroom where her 2 years old son, Satvik was still sprawled out across the bed, his tiny fists curled near his face. He looked exactly like Advik. 

Every time she looked at him, she saw the same stubborn set of the jaw and the same long eyelashes that used to flutter against her cheek when Advik slept beside her.

It had been eleven months since Advik had last been home. Eleven months of counting days, marking calendars, and sleeping on only one side of the bed.

"Satvik! Utho, mera baccha."

(Wake up my baby.)

She whispered, leaning over to kiss Satvik's forehead. The toddler groaned softly, rubbing his eyes with his chubby hands. He looked up at her, blinking away sleep, and immediately a wide, toothy grin broke across his face.

"Mumma! Papa?"

Satvik asked, his voice still thick with sleep. Sakshi felt that familiar pang in her heart, but she kept her smile bright. She picked him up, settling him on her hip as she walked toward the living room.

"Papa duty pe hain na, baby. He will come soon."

(Papa is on duty.)

She replied, her voice steady even if her heart wavered and she kissed his cheek. Managing a toddler and a household alone wasn't easy. 

From fixing leaky taps to dealing with Satvik's sudden fevers in the middle of the night, Sakshi had grown from the shy girl who was scared of the dark into a woman who could handle anything. 

But the one thing she couldn't fix was the hollow ache in her chest that only Advik could fill.

As she sat Satvik down for breakfast, her eyes fell on the framed photograph on the showcase. It was from their wedding day four years ago. Looking at it always took her back to the beginning, a time when she was so shy she couldn't even meet his eyes during the Rishta meeting.

It had been a typical arranged marriage setup. 

On the day they first met, she had sat on the edge of the sofa, clutching her dupatta, barely speaking a word. Advik, on the other hand, had been polite but firm, like soldiers were.

When they were given a few minutes alone, he had looked at her and asked.

"Are you sure about this? It's not an easy life, Sakshi. I'll be away more than I'll be here."

She had looked up then, seeing the honesty in his deep brown eyes, and simply nodded.

"I know. I can manage."

He had smiled then, a real, genuine smile that reached his eyes.

"Thik hai. Then I guess we're doing this."

(Fine.)

The first few months of their marriage were slow moves of getting to know each other. They were strangers sharing a room, but Advik was incredibly patient. 

He never pressured her, never rushed her. He treated her like something precious that needed to be handled with care.

She remembered one rainy evening during his first leave after they got married. They were sitting on the balcony of their first small posting house. Sakshi was making tea, her heart fluttering every time their hands brushed.

"Sakshi, idhar aao."

(Sakshi, come here.)

Advik had said, pulling her gently toward him.

"Kya hua? Chai thandi ho jayegi."

(What happened? The tea will get cold.)

She had murmured, her face turning pink. He didn't care about the tea. He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.

"Let it be. This is more important."

He whispered into her ear.

"I was thinking... how did I get so lucky? Maine toh sirf ek biwi maangi thi, mujhe toh ek angel mil gayi."

(I wanted a wife but I got an angel.)

"Aap bhi na... kuch bhi bolte hain."

(You...speak anything.)

She had giggled, finally turning around in his arms to hide her blushing face against his chest.

That was the night she realized she wasn't just his wife by law, she was falling deeply, irrevocably in love with him. He was her protector, her best friend, and the man who made her feel like the center of the universe even from hundreds of miles away.

"Mumma, milk!"

Satvik's voice snapped her back to the present. Sakshi laughed softly, shaking off the memory.

"Haan, haan, de rahi hoon. Bilkul sabar nhi hai, Papa ki tarah."

(Yes, yes, I am giving. You don’t have patience at all, just like your father.)

She spent the afternoon playing with Satvik, building towers out of colourful blocks only for him to knock them down with a loud "Boom!" He was at that age where everything was a wonder, and his laughter was the only thing that kept the silence of the house at bay.

Later, while Satvik took his afternoon nap, Sakshi sat down to write in her journal. It was a habit she had started when Advik went on this long deployment. She wrote to him every day, even if she couldn't send the letters. 

She told him about Satvik's new words, about the new recipe she tried, and about how much she missed the way he made her coffee in the morning.

She remembered their last night together before he left eleven months ago. The atmosphere had been heavy with the impending goodbye. They were lying in bed, Satvik tucked between them, fast asleep. Advik was tracing patterns on her palm, his touch lingering as if trying to memorize the feel of her skin.

"Take care of yourself, Sakshi."

He had said, his voice low and serious.

"Aur Satvik ko tang mat karne dena."

(Don’t let Satvik trouble you.)

"Main sambhal lungi, Advik. Aap bas apna khayal rakhna."

(I will handle, Advik. You just take care of yourself.)

She had replied, her voice cracking.

"Please... just come back safe. I don't need anything else. Bas aap chahiye."

(I just need you.)

He had pulled her into a tight embrace, kissing her hair.

"I promise. I'll come back to you. Hamesha."

(Always.)

That promise had been her lifeline for nearly a year. Every time she felt lonely or overwhelmed, she whispered those words to herself. 

I'll come back to you.

By evening, the house was quiet again. Satvik was busy watching cartoons while Sakshi started prepping for dinner. She was humming a soft tune, a song Advik used to hum while he shaved. 

She felt a strange sense of restlessness today. The air felt heavy, and her heart felt unusually full, as if it were bracing for something.

She looked at her phone on the kitchen counter. There had been no news for three days. Usually, he'd manage a short satellite call or a quick text saying "I'm okay," but the silence this time was stretching longer than usual.

"Don't worry."

She told herself, stirring the dal.

"He's a soldier. He's busy. He's safe."

She reached out to touch the mangalsutra around her neck, a habit that always calmed her. She thought about his last video call, how he had laughed when Satvik tried to kiss the phone screen.

"Sakshi, you look beautiful today."

He had told her, despite her messy hair and tired eyes.

"Jhoot mat boliye."

(Don’t lie.)

She had blushed.

"Sach bol raha hoon. Jab wapas aaunga na, tab bataunga kitni sundar lag rahi ho."

(I am saying the truth. I will tell you how beautiful you look when I return.)

He said with a wink that made her heart skip a beat even after four years of marriage and a son.

Suddenly, the silence of the apartment was shattered. Not by Satvik, but by the ringing of her phone.

Sakshi wiped her hands on her apron and walked over to the counter. It was an unknown number, but the area code was from the base camp region. Her heart began to race against her ribs, a frantic drumming that made it hard to breathe.

She picked it up on the third ring. Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Hello?"

"Kya meri baat Mrs. Sakshi Verma se ho rahi hai?"

(Am I speaking to Mrs. Sakshi Verma?)

A formal, steady voice asked from the other end.

"Ji... ji main hi bol rahi hoon."

(Yes…yes I am speaking.)

She replied, her grip tightening on the phone until her knuckles turned white.

The person on the other end continued to speak. As the words flowed through the line, the world around Sakshi seemed to slow down. The sound of the TV in the background became a muffled hum. The smell of the dal burning on the stove didn't reach her nose.

She stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen. Her hand, which had been resting on the counter, slowly fell to her side. The colour drained from her face. Her eyes were wide, staring at nothing, fixed on a point on the wall that she couldn't actually see.

Satvik toddled into the kitchen, pulling at the hem of her kurta.

"Mumma? Bhook lagi hai. Mumma?"

(I am hungry.)

Sakshi didn't move. She didn't look down at him. She didn't even seem to hear him. She just stood there, the phone still pressed to her ear, as the silence of the room swallowed her whole. 

She went completely numb. The line went dead, but she didn't put the phone down. She just stood there, a silent statue in a house that was no longer a home.