"Mama! Wake up! I made sunshine with crayons!"
The tiny voice danced through the quiet morning, followed by the soft patter of little feet across the wooden floor.
Riya stirred beneath the sheets, her lashes fluttering open. Golden sunlight poured through the linen curtains, bathing the room in a warm, sleepy glow. The scent of freshly brewed coffee drifted in — rich, familiar, comforting.
She turned toward the doorway.
There stood Aarav, leaning casually against the frame, a steaming mug in one hand, the other tucked into his pajama pocket. His hair was still messy from sleep, his eyes crinkled in that way they always did when he smiled — the kind of smile that held years of love and laughter.
> "Your daughter's redecorating the living room walls again," he said with a tired, amused sigh.
Riya sat up slowly, brushing her hair from her face, still half in dream. "Which color is the sun today?"
> "Green," he replied, sipping his coffee. "Apparently, yellow is too basic for her creativity."
Before Riya could respond, a blur of wild curls and oversized pajamas burst into the room.
Their daughter came running, clutching a crumpled drawing in her tiny paint-smudged hands.
> "Mamaaa! Look! I made sunshine with a mustache!" she announced proudly.
Riya took the paper, biting back a laugh. The sun had eyes, cheeks, cowboy boots, and indeed — a big crooked mustache.
> "Oh my goodness. He looks like he runs a taco truck," Riya giggled.
> "He does!" the little girl squealed. "It's called 'Taco Shine'! He only serves spicy stars and rainbow juice!"
Aarav chuckled. "You've raised a very imaginative entrepreneur."
> "Papa, Captain Shiney Pants isn't just a sun. He's a superhero. He flies around making people laugh when they're sad!"
Riya reached out, wrapping her daughter in her arms and pulling her close.
> "Well, you've certainly made my morning brighter, little one."
The girl beamed, pressing her warm cheek against Riya's shoulder.
> "Can we have pancakes today, Mama? With smiley faces?"
> "Only if you promise not to feed them to your stuffed animals again."
> "No promises," she said seriously. "Mr. Rabbit gets very hungry."
Aarav sat beside them on the bed, setting his coffee on the nightstand. He kissed Riya's temple, then leaned over to kiss his daughter's nose, making her squeal.
For a moment, the world stood still — wrapped in soft laughter, love-soaked sunlight, and the sacred quiet of a perfect morning.
Then, her daughter leapt onto the bed — all four years of wild curls, syrupy giggles, and bottomless curiosity. She clutched a crayon-smeared drawing and waved it like a flag.
> "Mama, do clouds get tired of floating?"
> "Only when they carry too many dreams," Riya replied.
They made pancakes shaped like dinosaurs. They danced to old Bollywood songs in the kitchen. Her daughter named every utensil. The kettle was "Princess Hiss." The toaster was "Sir Crunchington." Aarav joined in, playing the fool, pretending a spatula was a pirate sword.
The house wasn't perfect — a crack in the wall, a stain on the rug — but it was home. It pulsed with warmth, laughter, love.
Later that evening, the three of them snuggled under a blanket. Riya rested her cheek against her daughter's head. Aarav sat beside them, flipping through old photos on his phone.
> "I hope she never stops asking questions," Riya whispered.
"I hope she never has to know this world's answers," he replied.
Their daughter suddenly jolted upright on the couch.
> "I'm gonna jump like a kangaroo!" she shouted, springing to her feet.
> "No, baby, careful—"
But too late.
She slipped. A soft, thudding crack. A gasp. Then silence.
Riya screamed. Aarav lunged. The world blurred. Her heart pounded like a war drum.
---
She shot upright in bed.
Gasping. Sweating. Breath caught in her throat.
Darkness.
No crayons.
No couch.
No giggles.
Just stillness.
She turned sharply. Aarav sat beside her, awake, his eyes hollow.
> "She fell…" Riya whispered, searching the room. "Where is she?"
He said nothing. Just stared.
> "Aarav, she fell—on the floor—she hit her head! We have to—"
He gently reached for her hand, voice trembling.
> "Riya… there's no one here."
The silence that followed was deeper than grief.
It was a silence that remembered.
A silence that had been there for four years.
> "She was just here," Riya said, her voice cracking.
Aarav nodded, his own eyes glistening.
> "I see her too, sometimes. Especially when it's quiet. Especially in dreams."
Riya clutched her stomach, folding forward. The pain was back — not physical, but worse.
The memory of the hospital room.
The silence after the monitor flatlined.
The nurse who cried.
The tiny blanket, never wrapped.
The name they chose, never spoken aloud again.
She looked up at Aarav, her voice a whisper of a broken world:
> "She fell in my dream.
But it was my heart that hit the floor."
Aarav pulled her close.
And in the cold dark of that night, two parents held onto a dream that had once smiled, asked silly questions, and drawn green suns —
A dream that never opened her eyes to this world, yet refused to close her parents' hearts to hers.
---
End.