It had been two days since Ira and Abhay had brought the elderly woman in from the metro.

She had collapsed right in front of them—shaking, unconscious—and though they were strangers at the time, no one other but both of them had stepped in without a second thought. While Abhay had handled the emergency, Ira had driven her to the hospital and stayed back to ensure she was admitted.

Two days. And still, no one had come for her.

Something about her frailty, the lost look in her eyes, had haunted Ira ever since. She had followed up with the hospital staff — and now, standing beside the nurse’s desk, she finally asked the question that had been weighing on her.

Ira:
"Did anyone come to see her? Any family… friends?"

The nurse shook her head.
“No, ma’am. Not a single visitor since she was brought in. We only have her name—Savitri Devi. Nothing else.”

Ira quietly made her way to the ward where the old lady lay. Her hair was neatly braided by a kind-hearted nurse, but her eyes wandered the ceiling—half searching, half forgetting.

Ira leaned in gently, kneeling beside the bed.
"Amma… do you remember where your family is?"

The old woman blinked slowly, her voice low, confused.

Savitri Devi:
“He said he’d just go get the ticket… and he never came back… Where’s my house again? I was just there… I think... it had yellow curtains? Or maybe that was a dream… The cat used to sit by the window—did I have a cat?”

Her words stumbled out like threads from an unraveling fabric, broken and disjointed.

That’s when Abhay entered the room, glancing at the vitals and checking the chart.

Abhay (calmly):
“She has Alzheimer’s. Advanced stage. We’ve contacted the listed number — her son confirmed it. He doesn’t want to take her back.”

Ira’s throat tightened.
"He... abandoned her?"

Abhay nodded grimly, not looking away from the chart.
“At the metro station. Two days ago.”

There was a pause. Then Ira said it:

Ira:
"Can I take her to my home?"

Abhay (gently, but firm):
"Sorry, I can’t approve that unless she gives written consent to be discharged under your care. Otherwise, legally—it’s complicated."

Ira nodded slowly. “Okay. I get it.”

She turned back to the woman. Sat beside her again.

The old lady’s hands trembled like dry leaves in the wind. Ira reached out, steady and calm, and held them.

Then, with the kind of softness that only comes from lived pain, she asked:

Ira:
"Dadi... can I be your family?"

Savitri Devi blinked. Her eyes welled up—not with recognition, but with something deeper.
“You… you’re Neelu, aren’t you? My daughter… You’ve come back…”

Ira’s breath caught. Her eyes shimmered.

Ira (softly):
"Haan Maa... main Neelu hi hoon."

Tears welled up, not from pity—but from something unspoken. Ira, who never knew a mother’s gentle touch, was being given a second chance... not to be loved, but to love.

Later that afternoon…

Abhay was standing by the window in his cabin, sipping what was left of his now-lukewarm coffee. The hospital’s hum buzzed low around him—beeping monitors, distant footsteps, the occasional rustle of papers—but his mind wasn’t on any of it.

A faint ache in his neck reminded him he’d been on his feet since before sunrise. Another sleepless night. Another emergency. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the weight of exhaustion, but his eyes stayed fixed on the patient chart he’d been reviewing.

Behind him, footsteps approached—slow, hesitant.

“Sir…” the nurse said softly, holding out a file.
“She’s here. The elderly lady—Savitri Devi. She’s given written consent to be discharged under Major Ira’s care.”

Abhay turned toward her, brow slightly raised.

The nurse continued, “She thinks Ira is her daughter. Neelu.”

Abhay’s hand paused midway as he reached for the file.

That name again—Ira.

The nurse continued, “She’s still confused. Keeps calling that woman ‘Neelu.’ But... that Major—Miss Ira—she’s signed all the temporary care documents. Says she’ll take full responsibility.”

Abhay took the file and scanned it.

“There’s no family on record,” the nurse added. “Ira submitted her ID, gave her service background for verification. She didn’t mention she’s a Major, but when I cross-checked, her military credentials came up clean. No red flags. We’ll still file a basic report—just so it’s clear the hospital’s aware and has no objection.”

Abhay paused, his thumb resting lightly on the edge of the file.

“Sir…” the nurse said softly, breaking his concentration.

Then, without a word, he stepped out of his cabin and made his way toward the waiting area.

He didn’t have to ask where they were.

Through the open door, he saw Ira helping the elderly woman walk—steady, sure, like she’d done it a hundred times before.

Abhay (to himself):
“There’s something about her... the way she holds that old lady’s hand, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. No rush. No burden. Just care.”

“People don’t do that anymore—not like this. Not when no one’s watching.”

“Most people would've left after calling an ambulance. But She’s not just helping... she’s being there.”

“Strange… I don’t even know her, but somehow… she feels familiar. Not in face. In energy.”

Ira's POV :------------------

Ira was thinking about something when Savitri Devi ( Amma is how Ira is calling her now) had called her :

Amma : " Neelu beta, tumne itna der kyu kiya mujhe lene aane mein "

Ira : " Wo amma aap hi ne tho kaha tha aapke liye rasmalai laane ko, tho wahi phas gaye the "

Amma : " Beta tumne mere liye rasmalai laya? Tumhe pata hai hame bahut der se kuch meetha khana tha "

Ira : " Haan, maa dekhiye maine ek dibba bhar ke laya hai " { She gently pulled out the box of rasmalai from her bag and placed it on in front of her. Savitri Devi’s face lit up like a child’s. }

Savitri Devi (grinning):

"Neelu beta, tum bilkul apne papa par gayi ho... Hamesha hame hassa deti ho gussa hone hi nahi deti!"

Ira (smiling):

"Toh gussa bhi kar lo... Mai aapko chutiyo mein shant kara lungi!"

Savitri Devi (chuckling):

"Main toh roz kuch na kuch kehti hoon... lekin tum sun leti ho, bas yahi kaafi hai."

As they both shared a small laugh, Abhay approached, watching them from a short distance. He smiled at the warmth in the air. Then, gently—

Abhay:

"Excuse me, Major… Do you mind coming aside for a minute?"

Ira looked up instinctively at the voice—not Amma’s this time. Her eyes met Abhay’s across the room.

For a moment, she blinked, registering him—not just as the doctor, but as someone who had been quietly observing, waiting, respectful in his distance. She gave a small nod, the kind that spoke more of acknowledgment than obligation.

Ira (nodding):
"Sure."

She then gently placed the spoon in amma's hand, her voice soft but firm.

“Amma, aap khaate rahiye… main bas abhi aayi,” she said with a small smile.

Amma nodded slowly, already dipping the spoon into the rasmalai.

Without wasting a moment, Ira stood up and followed Abhay a few steps away, her expression shifting from warmth to quiet attention.

Abhay (softly):

"She lights up when you're around. It's rare… in cases like hers."

Ira:

"I guess… maybe because I let her believe what comforts her. I don’t want to correct her."

Abhay (nodding):

"That’s... kind. Not everyone understands the importance of that. Even families don’t."

Ira (quietly):

"Sometimes, being a stranger helps. No expectations, just presence."

Abhay (with a faint smile):

"You’re not a stranger to her. Not anymore."

There’s a pause—just enough to make Ira glance at him, curious.

Ira:

"Thanks for all the help yesterday. Honestly, if you hadn’t been there… I think things could’ve gone a lot worse."

Abhay (with a soft chuckle):

“You’re thanking me? You were calm, clear, and quicker than half the staff I work with.”

“You didn’t panic. You looked like someone who’s seen real emergencies before.”

Ira:

"Old habits. Army teaches us not to show it on our face. But I was scared for her, genuinely."

Abhay (gently):

"She's in good hands. You’re doing more than many blood relatives would."

Ira simply nodded, eyes flicking back to Amma who was now humming softly to herself.

Abhay (smiling):

"Let me know if you need anything. Any tests, reports—just leave a note with the nurse."

Ira (gratefully):

"I will. Thanks… Doctor?"

Abhay:

"Abhay. Just Abhay’s fine."

Ira (smiling back):

"Ira."

They shook hands — firm, brief, and warm. The kind of handshake that didn’t demand answers or offer expectations.

They exchanged the simplest of smiles—gentle, unburdened.

Two strangers. No past. No pressure.

Just… a beginning.

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