After sometime;

The heavy, swinging doors of the Operation Theatre finally opened, and the surgeon stepped out, pulling down his mask. 

Aryan surged to his feet, his heart suspended by a single thread of hope.

"The surgery went well," the doctor said, offering a tired but reassuring smile. 

"Luckily, the blade missed any vital organs. You brought her here just in time. A few more minutes of blood loss and the story would have been very different. She's stable now."

Aryan felt the breath leave his body—a long, shuddering exhale that carried four years of repressed agony with it. 

"Main... main use dekh sakta hoon?" he rasped.

"She's still under anesthesia, but you can go in," the doctor nodded. 

"But please, only one person at a time. She needs rest."

Aryan didn't wait for a second invitation. He stepped into the ICU, the sterile, mechanical hum of the monitors acting as a rhythmic pulse to the silence.

 He closed the door behind him, shutting out the world, the blood, and the horror.

He walked toward her bed, his steps heavy and uncertain. There she lay—Anjali. His Jaan.

She looked so fragile amidst the tangle of tubes and the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor.

Her face was pale, almost translucent under the harsh white lights, but to Aryan, she was the most beautiful sight in existence.

 She looked like a fallen angel who had survived the fires of hell just to find her way back to him.

"Puri duniya se lad kar tumhe wapas laya hoon, Jaan," he thought, his trembling hand hovering over hers, afraid that even a touch might break her.

"Chaar saal tak meri duniya andhere mai thi. Har subah ek saza thi aur har raat ek jung. Maine tumhe kabar mein dhunda, maine tumhe khwaabon mein pukara... aur tum mere saamne thi. Itne paas, par itni door."

He sank into the chair beside her bed, finally letting his own exhausted body lean against the mattress. He watched the steady rise and fall of her chest.

He picked up her hand, pressing his forehead against her knuckles. The warmth of her skin was a miracle he didn't deserve.

"Ab main tumhe kahi nahi jaane dunga. Ab agar maut bhi aayi, toh use mujhse hokar guzarna padega. Main tumhara gunehgaar hoon, jaan. Maine tumhe dhoondne mein itni der kardi... par ab, main tumhe duniya ki har khushi dunga. Tumhare aur Advika ke beech ab koi Dev Singhania nahi aayega. Koi jhoot nahi aayega. Bas hum honge... aur hamari adhuri dastaan jo aaj mukammal ho gi."

As he sat there, the first rays of a real, hopeful dawn began to creep through the hospital window. 

For the first time in four years, Aryan Taneja wasn't just breathing. He was alive.

Aryan rested his head against the side of the hospital bed, his fingers entwined with hers as if his very pulse depended on her touch. 

The silence of the room was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic, mechanical heartbeat of the monitor. Exhaustion finally claimed him, and he drifted into a shallow, fitful doze.

Suddenly, a faint flicker beneath his palm jolted him awake. His eyes shot open, and his breath hitched as he saw Anjali's eyelids trembling. 

Slowly, painfully, she opened her eyes, struggling to find focus in the sterile light. Her gaze drifted toward him, and her parched lips parted to whisper just two words:

"Mr. Taneja..."

The world stopped. In that single, whispered breath, the weight of four years—1461 days of hollow silence, 35,064 hours of agonizing emptiness—shattered.

Every second he had spent mourning her, every minute he had spent searching for her ghost, was washed away by the sound of his own name. 

To the world, it was just a title, but to Aryan, it was the key that unlocked his soul.

The dam finally broke. Aryan didn't just cry; he collapsed. 

He dropped to his knees beside the bed, his body shaking with a raw, primal sob.

He moved toward the foot of the bed, lowering his head until his forehead rested against her feet.

In that moment, he wasn't the powerful businessman or the vengeful protector; he was a devotee at the altar of his own miracle.

"Tum aa gayi... tum sach mein aa gayi," he choked out, his voice vibrating with a divine sort of reverence.

He pressed his forehead harder against her feet, his tears soaking into the hospital linen.

"In char saalon mein, Anjali, tumhe khone se maine sirf tumhe nahi, balki khud ko bhi kho diya tha. I was just a walking corpse, a shadow searching for a light that I thought had gone out forever. Every breath I took felt like a betrayal because you weren't there to share the air with me."

He looked up at her, his eyes red and swimming in tears, his face a map of the agony he had endured.

"I spent a lifetime in those four years, Anjali. I died a thousand deaths in the silence of our home. I used to look at the moon and beg it to tell me where you were. I used to hate the sunlight because it reminded me that the world was still moving while my heart had stopped the moment that car crashed."

He reached up, gently touching the edge of the bed, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a sacred vow.

"Abhi jab tumne 'Mr. Taneja' kaha... toh aisa laga jaise mere seene mein thami hui dhadkan phir se chal padi hai. It was like a miracle,jaan. Maine apni rooh ko wapas apne jism mein aate hue mehsoos kiya. Char saal ka woh andhera, woh sannata... sab khatam ho gaya. Tum sirf meri biwi nahi ho, tum meri saans ho. Agar tum wapas nahi aati, toh Aryan Taneja kabhi wapas nahi aata"

Anjali's fingers twitched, and she weakly stroked his hair, her own tears falling onto his hand.

 The connection was electric—a bond that had survived a car crash, memory loss, and the madness of a monster.

"Ab kahi mat jana, " he begged, looking into her eyes with a raw, primal desperation.

"Ab main tumhe apni nazron se ek second ke liye bhi door nahi hone dunga. Humne bahut dard seh liya... ab sirf sukoon hoga. Main, tum aur hamari Advika."

Anjali smiled through her tears, her voice a faint, beautiful rasp.

 "Advika... meri bacchi..."

Aryan nodded frantically, kissing her hand over and over.

"Haan Jaan, hamari beti. bus ab jaldi se theek ho jao hmm ghar bhi toh chalna hai..adu apni mumma ka intezaar kar rahi hogi"

The nightmare of Rishikesh, the blood, and the lies were gone.

 There was only the two of them, and a love that had proven itself stronger than death, stronger than time, and stronger than the darkest obsessions of man.