Abhivyaktikar
The quiet buzz of the airport hummed around Prachi as she sat in a stiff metal chair, her hands clutching the handle of a bright yellow trolley bag. People shuffled past her, each absorbed in their own hurried lives, but Prachi felt like she was moving through quicksand. The weight of the doctor's words-"malignant tumor"-still pressed heavy on her chest. She closed her eyes, trying to push away the pang of fear. This was supposed to be her escape. Ten days in the pristine Himalayas, away from the suffocating city and her own reality.
It was then that a sharp cry snapped her out of her thoughts. Her eyes flew open to see a little girl, no older than three, toddling toward the rushing traffic just outside the terminal doors. Instinct took over. Prachi bolted to her feet, her sprained ankle screaming in protest, and ran toward the child.
The screech of brakes filled the air as she swooped in and pulled the little girl back, just in time. The child blinked at her with wide, doll-like eyes, too young to understand the danger she had been in.
"Are you okay, sweetheart?" Prachi asked, her voice trembling.
Before she could process the moment, a man rushed toward them. His face was etched with panic, and his sharp features were softened only by the warmth in his eyes as he looked at the child. He hugged the girl tightly, whispering something Prachi couldn't hear, before standing and turning to her.
"Thank-" The word seemed stuck in his throat. His eyes darted to her sprained foot, but instead of gratitude, his expression hardened. Without another word, he grabbed the child and left, his stride brisk, his presence as cold as the air outside.
Prachi stared after him, shocked and furious. But before she could gather her thoughts, her eyes fell on her yellow trolley bag-or at least, what she thought was hers.