kriasanchi

[kriasanchi]

🎵 “Golden Chair”

Written by Aleena Reyan (within the story)

(Verse 1)

They dressed me in ribbons, said, “Smile for the light,”

Painted my silence and sold it as bright.

Hands on my shoulder, too firm, too cold,

Said “This is your dream,” as they tightened their hold.

(Pre-Chorus)

But I learned to sing without making a sound,

Hiding my truth while they spun me around.

Glass in my shoes, blood in my hair,

Still they crowned me queen of a golden chair.

(Chorus)

But you can’t silence a soul that bleeds,

Can’t burn down roots and kill the seeds.

I was watching through the dark despair—

You caged me in, but I wasn’t there.

Now hear my voice, it’s stripped and bare:

I was never gone.

Just waiting in that golden chair.

(Verse 2)

You bought your silence with contracts and lies,

But paper dissolves when truth starts to rise.

You thought I broke—no, I learned to bend,

This melody’s loaded, and this is the end.

(Bridge)

Name by name, line by line,

My songs are scars I let you sign.

Now every note, a final blow—

I sing so the world will know.

(Final Chorus)

You can’t silence a soul that bleeds,

Can’t erase the proof in the melodies.

I was buried, but I wasn’t dead—

Just rewriting the lines you said.

Now hear my voice, it’s my repair:

I was never gone.

Just waiting in that golden chair.

(Outro - whisper)

One song at a time…

You’ll fall, like I did. 🎶

[kriasanchi]

Whispers from the Shadows

Part 1: The Night Everything Changed

Aanvi had always loved the city lights. They reminded her of her mother’s smile, warm, gentle, always glowing. She was studying journalism in Delhi, far from her hometown in Uttar Pradesh. Life was hard, but she kept going. Her mother’s calls always came at the right time, full of encouragement, love, and hope.

But one night, the calls stopped.

Aanvi was in the middle of her exams when she received the news: her mother, Malira, was dead. The police said it was an accident. But deep down, Aanvi knew something wasn’t right.

Her father, Kairav Sharma, sad a little during the funeral. His eyes were dark and cold, filled with something Aanvi couldn’t name.

She moved back into their family house for a few days. The silence in the house was loud. Her mother’s room was untouched, her perfume still hung in the air, and her favorite maxi dress was folded neatly on the bed.

The first strange thing happened the night Aanvi cried herself to sleep.

She had whispered, “I wish you were here, Ma.”

And then the lights blinked. Her Macbook turned on by itself. On the screen was a document she hadn’t saved: her entire assignment, completed, with her name typed at the bottom.

Aanvi froze. She hadn’t even started writing it.

Part 2: A Presence in the Silence

Aanvi tried to explain it to herself. Maybe she wrote it in her sleep. Maybe she forgot. But deep down, she knew better.

Strange things kept happening.

When she was late for an interview, her broken alarm clock rang anyway. When she ran out of money for food, a surprise scholarship payment appeared in her bank account, something she had never applied for. And every time she faced trouble, she’d whisper, “Help me, Ma,” and something would shift. Doors would open, papers would write themselves, lost things would appear in plain sight.

She began to wonder. Is it... her?

One night, Aanvi lit a candle in front of her mother’s photo. The same warm smile stared back at her.

“Ma,” she whispered, “is it really you?”

The candle flickered. Then it went out. But there was no wind.

That night, she dreamed of her mother standing at the end of her bed. Malira looked exactly the same, beautiful, kind but her eyes were full of sadness.

“I’m still here,” she said. “But you must be careful.”

“Why, Ma? What’s wrong?”

But before she could answer, Aanvi woke up, heart racing, drenched in sweat.

Part 3: The Hidden Truth

Aanvi couldn’t get her mother’s words out of her mind. “You must be careful.” Careful of what?

She started to investigate. She went back to the police report. It said that her mother fell down the stairs. No eyewitnesses. Her father found her body. Case closed.

But something didn’t make sense.

Her mother was careful person, she never rushed, never wore slippery shoes, and the staircase had a railing. Aanvi remembered helping her mother clean it just last month.

She visited their former maid, Savita, who now lived with her sister in another town.

“Savita Didi… do you believe my mother’s death was an accident?”

Savita looked around nervously. “I can’t say much. But… your father was not kind to her.”

Aanvi’s heart dropped. “You mean he …?”

“I heard shouting that night. Loud and angry. Your mother was crying. I wanted to help, but he told me to leave. The next morning, she was… gone.”

That night, Aanvi lit the candle again and whispered, “Ma… did he do it?” The room grew cold.

A single word appeared on the foggy mirror across the room.

YES.

Part 4: The Plan

Aanvi’s hands trembled as she stared at the mirror. YES. Her breath caught in her throat.

Her father had killed her mother.

She remembered the fights, how her mother would pretend everything was fine, even with bruises on her arms and eyes. She thought her mother was clumsy. But now she knew the truth.

And her mother’s spirit was still here… trying to protect her.

But from what?

She began avoiding her father. He called sometimes, asking her to visit, but his voice made her sick. “Are you okay?” he’d ask, acting like a concerned parent.

One day, he said, “I want to give you something your mother left behind. It’s important.”

She agreed to meet him at the old house, but not alone. She brought her best friend, Nirusha, who waited in the car with her phone recording.

Inside, the house felt heavier than ever. “I’m surprised you came,” her father said. “What did you want to give me?” she asked.

He handed her a box. It was full of old photos and letters. But one envelope was sealed and had her name written in her mother’s handwriting.

She opened it. Inside was a note:

If you're reading this, I am probably gone. I stayed for you. But he’s dangerous. Be strong, say nothing and leave. I love you.

She looked up. Her father was watching her. Smiling.

But not the smile of a parent. The smile of someone who thought he had won. Then everything went dark.

Part 5: Shadows Exposed

Aanvi blinked, trying to see in the sudden darkness. The lights had gone out. Her phone was dead. The only light came from a flicker, her mother’s candle, which she had tucked into her bag for courage.

She held the candle tight. “Ma… help me,” she whispered.

Then came the whisper in the room . A gentle voice “Run, beta… now.”

Suddenly, the lights flickered back on. Her father stood close, too close, his face twisted in anger. “What did she write to you?” he asked, stepping forward.

“You killed her,” Aanvi said, voice shaking. “I know the truth.”

“You don’t know anything,” he growled. “She was weak. Always complaining. You’re just like her.”

Aanvi stepped back, but a picture frame fell from the wall by itself. Her father turned, startled. That’s when Aanvi ran.

Nirusha saw her friend burst through the front door. “Drive!” Aanvi yelled, jumping into the car.

Later that night, she gave the police her mothers letter, the recording, and Savita’s statement. They didn’t believe her at first, until the forensic team checked the staircase again.

Bloodstains had been cleaned. Poorly. And Savita agreed to testify.

Three months later, the trial began. Her father tried to play innocent. But the evidence was too strong. He was sentenced to life in prison.

Part 6: The Final Gift

After the trial, Aanvi moved to a quiet coastal town. She rented a small flat near the beach, where the waves reminded her of her mother’s lullabies. Peace returned slowly.

But the whispers never left.

She still lit a candle every night. She still whispered, “Thank you, Ma.” And sometimes… the candle would flicker twice. Her mother’s way of saying “I’m here.”

Then one morning, she received a letter from a lawyer. It was from her mother. Written a year before her death.

Inside was a legal document transferring a small piece of land in Uttarakhand to Aanvi, hidden from her father’s reach. Along with it was a diary, her mother’s.

The pages were full of love. Words of strength. And plans. Her mother had known the danger and prepared for it in silence.

But the last page had something strange.

A drawing. A little girl in red, holding her mother’s hand. But her mother had no face. Just a mirror. Aanvi didn’t understand it, until that night.

She had another dream.

She was walking along a dark forest path. Alone.

Suddenly, a child’s voice called out. “Mama?”

She turned, and saw a little girl, holding a broken doll.

Aanvi knelt. “Are you lost?”

The girl nodded, then pointed behind Aanvi.

She turned slowly, expecting to see her mother.

But it wasn’t her. It was herself.

Older. Wiser. Eyes full of pain.

The little girl whispered, “You saved me.”

Aanvi woke up crying. And then she understood the truth.

Her mother hadn’t just saved her. She had made sure the cycle ended. That dream… was a vision of her future. The child was her own daughter. And the woman she saw, that was the version of herself that didn’t become her mother, the one who broke free.

Her mother’s spirit had stayed not only to protect her…

But to rewrite destiny. That night, the candle didn’t flicker.

But a breeze passed gently through the room. Like arms around her.

Aanvi smiled. “Goodnight, Ma.”

[kriasanchi]

Alright ☺️

How can I become a writer?

Write.

But I don't know where to start.

Write.

But I'm worried.

WRITE.

What if nobody likes it?

W R I T E

What if it's not very good?

Write. Write. WRITE. WRITE.

W

R

I

T

E

Write

Write. Write. Write. Write. Write. Write.

Write.

Write

Write

Write

Write

Write

Write

Write

Write

W R I T E

Write write write

Write

Write

[kriasanchi]

Title : A Mismatch Worth Remembering

Lena lived in stories, not streets. Her life unfolded in pages, not parties. She loved books the way some people love seasons—patiently, completely, knowing they would always come back to her. Poetry was her favorite escape, where emotions spilled gently between verses. She read them, wrote them, folded them into margins of novels she’d already read twice.

And then there was Kai.

Kai was everything a story warned her about—unpredictable, untethered, electric. He hadn’t read a single book in years, said poetry was “just emotions dressed up fancy,” and that love didn’t need metaphors, just the right kind of kiss. He lived fast, laughed loud, and carried his past like a shrug over the shoulder.

They had nothing in common.

But still, she was curious. Not about being his forever. Just about knowing—knowing what it felt like to exist beside someone who didn’t fit between her lines.

One night, after too many questions and not enough answers, she wrote:

What if I kissed the kind of chaos

That doesn’t belong in my story?

Would it tear the page, or write a new one?

They started spending time together. Not dating. Not defined. Just two opposites orbiting each other. He would drive her to strange places—abandoned rail tracks, quiet hills under city lights—and she’d bring her books, reading aloud as he half-listened, half-watched the sky.

Once, while she read Neruda, he said, “I don’t get it. But I like how your voice softens when the words do.”

That night, she wrote:

You don’t read my poems,

But you live in them anyway.

And maybe that’s enough.

They shared moments that didn’t belong to either of their worlds—her soft, planned quiet; his loud, chaotic rhythm. He showed her how to let go. She showed him how to feel without running.

But slowly, the cracks showed.

He hated when she asked where he’d been. She hated when he made her feel too much. He couldn’t sit still long enough to understand her world.

She couldn’t stop needing to explain hers. They both knew it wouldn’t last. One day, after a fight that felt like the end before it even began, she sat alone in her room and wrote:

You were never the love story.

You were the poem scrawled in the margins.

Messy. Unfinished. Still beautiful.

When it ended, it didn’t hurt the way books made heartbreak seem. It was quieter. Real. A dull ache, not a scream. She didn’t hate him. She didn’t wish it hadn’t happened.

Because now she knew.

She returned to her books, but read them with new eyes. She found herself underlining different lines. She saw beauty in stories that didn’t end happily, but ended honestly.

And every once in a while, when she opened her journal and saw those scribbled verses, she smiled—not in sadness, but in recognition.

Some mismatches weren’t meant to last.

But they were always worth remembering.