The next morning, I woke up gasping.
I hadn't really slept. Just tossed under an old ceiling fan while my thoughts clawed at the walls of my skull like trapped birds.
I needed answers—concrete ones, not whispers from faded photographs or shadows behind my eyelids.
At sunrise, I called Dad.
He picked up after the second ring. "Dev?" he said, voice cracked from sleep.
"I need to ask you something."
"Go on."
"Did you know… Maya had a twin?"
There was a pause. A breath. A hesitation that was louder than denial.
"Yes."
I blinked at the ceiling. The silence between us stretched like a tightrope.
"Then why didn't you ever tell me?"
"Because she made me promise not to."
My grip on the phone tightened.
"Why would she make you promise that?"
Dad sounded like he was sitting up now, waking up not just from sleep—but from memory.
"She said... Amrita died while she was staying at the haveli during her pregnancy. Some accident. She didn't give me details. Just said it was sudden and painful. And she never wanted to talk about it again."
I let that sink in.
"You believed her?"
"She was my wife, Dev. I loved her. Why would I question something like that?"
I didn't answer.
He continued, "Besides, when she came back with you, she was… different. Not in a frightening way. Just quieter. Gentler. She laughed less. Like she'd left a part of herself behind in that house."
A part of her? Or all of her?
"Dad," I said slowly, "Did she ever mention any physical differences between her and Amrita? Anything at all?"
"Yeah. A scar—on her left calf. From a childhood bike accident. Maya had it. Amrita didn't. That's how their parents told them apart when they were little."
I stared at the wall. My breathing had slowed, but my heart was racing.
"And… silver?"
"Ah yes, Maya was allergic. Even her wedding ring had to be platinum. Her skin would flare up if it touched silver. But Amrita? Total opposite. She adored silver—earrings, bangles, rings on every finger."
"And voice?"
Dad paused.
"That's... hard to say. They were identical. But Maya's voice was lower, more composed. Amrita talked fast. Sharp. Like she was always five seconds ahead of the conversation."
My brain was ticking now. Fast. Fast like Amrita used to talk.
I couldn't stop.
"Dad. Just… tell me everything. From the beginning. Especially when she got pregnant with me."
He sighed heavily. "When she found out, it was pure joy. She cried. I cried. We celebrated. And then came the tradition—pregnant women spend their final months at their maternal home. She didn't want to leave, but tradition's a powerful thing in her family. She left for the haveli."
"And when she came back?"
"She came home with you. She said Amrita had died. Car crash. The body was charred, they only identified her from the bracelet she always wore. Maya didn't attend the cremation. Said she couldn't bear it."
I felt something shift inside me. A dull, sick pull of gravity.
"She said her sister was dead… and no one verified it?"
"Her mother confirmed it. So did the local police. I had no reason to doubt it."
"And then?"
"Then life happened. We did your naamkaran. Quietly. She was distant at times. When I brought up trying for another baby, she said no. Not now, not ever. She avoided the topic every time I brought it up. Eventually… I stopped asking."
My fingers trembled as I held the phone. My voice was barely a whisper.
"She died when I was five."
Dad didn't say anything.
I ended the call.
The room felt colder now.
Not just the air. The memories. The silence. The way the light hit the floor like it didn't belong here.
I sat by the old cupboard in the haveli and let it all sink in.
The story didn't add up.
She went to the haveli pregnant… and came back saying her twin was dead.
But what if…
She was the one who died?
What if Amrita—grieving, or maybe something far more sinister—took her place?
Identical twins. No one verified the body.
The only difference: a scar. And a metal allergy.
I remembered her legs.
Bare, during the summers. Dresses just above the knee.
No scar.
Not even a faint one.
And she wore silver. Every day.
A thin chain. A toe ring. A silver-plated hairpin she said was a "lucky charm."
No reactions. No rashes.
No hesitation.
Who was the woman that tucked me in at night?
That sang to me in a voice that was always slightly too fast, like her mind was running ahead?
Who was the woman who looked me in the eye every birthday and said, "You look just like your father"?
Was she talking to herself?
I opened the old cupboard in Maya's childhood room.
Inside were stacks of journals. Most too old to survive flipping.
But one caught my eye. Leather-bound. Faintly newer.
The handwriting wasn't what I remembered.
It was angular. Leaning forward. Like the words were in a rush to be read.
Inside, on the front page:
"A name is just a costume. What matters is who survives wearing it."
I closed the journal.
My hands were sweating.
This wasn't grief.
This was something else.
This was calculated.
Deliberate.
I stepped back and stared into the mirror.
And for the first time in my life, I didn't know whose son I was