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It started the same way every time.
The scent of burnt tobacco, faint but distinct. The quiet hum of the night, interrupted only by the sound of heels clicking against the cold marble floor. The overwhelming weight in her chest—one that never truly left, only dulled in moments of distraction.
Her mother’s back was always the first thing she saw in these memories.
Tall, poised, draped in elegance. Even when she wasn’t facing Namra, there was an undeniable presence about her. A presence that commanded silence, that kept people at a distance. That same distance Namra had inherited without realizing.
"Don’t let people see your weaknesses, Namra."
She had been young when she first heard those words, but they stayed with her. Because her mother had lived by them, right until the end.
The memory that haunted her most wasn’t a grand tragedy. It wasn’t loud. It was quiet. Almost mundane.
A night like any other. The two of them alone in the vast mansion, yet worlds apart. Namra had come home from school, her uniform still crisp, her backpack still slung over one shoulder. She had stood at the doorway of her mother’s study, hesitant, unsure of why she even wanted to speak.
Her mother sat at the grand desk, cigarette in hand, the tip glowing in the dim light. Papers were stacked neatly before her, a glass of wine untouched at her side. She looked so put together, so untouchable.
Namra had swallowed, then spoke.
"Mom."
A small pause. A barely noticeable tension in her mother’s shoulders. Then, she turned, her expression unreadable.
"Yes?"
That was the moment. That fleeting, fragile moment. The one that refused to let her go.
Namra had opened her mouth, but no words came. She wanted to say something. Maybe ask why they barely spoke anymore. Maybe tell her that she was tired of always feeling like she had to be perfect. That she wanted to be seen, not just as a daughter to be shaped, but as a person.
But she said nothing.
Her mother’s dark eyes studied her for a beat longer, then she gave a small nod—as if that silence was all she needed to hear. She turned back to her papers.
"If it’s not important, don’t linger."
That was the last real conversation they had.
A few weeks later, her mother was gone. She ended herself.
Just like that. No warnings. No goodbyes. No second chances.
And Namra had never been able to forget that moment at the doorway. That second where she could have said something—anything—but chose to stay silent.
