The morning sunlight filtered through the pale green curtains, casting soft shadows across the recovery suite.
Kabita had been staring at the ceiling for hours.
Her body was healing. Her strength was returning. But the questions inside her were louder than ever—an ache in her chest deeper than the scar left by surgery.
No one knew his name.
Not the doctors. Not the nurses. Not even the administrators who usually held files on everything from organ donor registries to staff birthdays.
It didn't make sense.
Someone had saved her life.
And vanished like smoke.
---
"Why doesn't anyone know who he is?" she asked Dr. Sinha later that day, frustration rippling through her voice like static.
Dr. Sinha was an older woman with gentle eyes and too many burdens. She looked tired—tired of miracles that ended in more grief than joy.
"We tried," she said simply. "He had no family. No contact number. He gave us consent forms. All legal. But he never used his full name. He signed with just his first name, and we respected his wish to remain anonymous."
Kabita's heart stuttered. "What was the name?"
Dr. Sinha looked hesitant. "We're not allowed to share personal donor information unless the donor specified it."
"But he's gone," Kabita said. "Don't I have a right to know whose heart is keeping me alive?"
The doctor paused. "I'll see what I can do."
But even then, she already knew the answer.
There was no last name. No ID. No address. No relatives listed.
Just a single word, barely legible:
"Rajan."
---
Kabita began asking around.
She talked to every nurse, every staff member, even the cleaning workers who'd been near the ICU at the time of her coma.
Some remembered a quiet boy. Some recalled a man in plain clothes who visited her room every day, just sitting silently beside her. A few mentioned his eyes—tired, but full of something deeper than pain.
"He just sat there," one old nurse said. "Like time didn't exist. I thought he was your brother. Or someone who owed you a great debt."
Another added, "He always brought a small pack of incense. Said you liked jasmine. Do you?"
Kabita blinked.
She did.
She hadn't told anyone that in years.
---
The mystery only deepened.
Her father had tried to investigate too, quietly.
He spoke to the organ transplant board, pulled every string he could. He even hired someone to check with other hospitals to see if a "Rajan" had been reported missing or deceased.
Nothing.
It was like the man had never existed outside of that moment—born to give, and gone before the world could notice.
---
The media caught wind of it.
They circled like hawks, branding her as "The Miracle Girl," spinning theories.
Some said the donor was a soldier, others claimed it was a monk. One even ran a story that it was an old lover from her childhood who had never moved on.
Kabita hated it.
She stayed away from the TV, turned off her phone, ignored the social media frenzy.
This wasn't a story to her.
It was a person.
A soul.
And somehow, she missed him.
Is it possible to miss someone you've never met?
Or did some part of her… already know him?
---
Late one night, she wandered into the hospital garden, alone. The moon was high, the paths empty.
She sat under a small tree—the same spot where the quiet man used to wait, the nurses had told her.
And she whispered, "Who were you?"
The breeze moved gently, brushing her cheek like a fading memory.
She closed her eyes and pressed her palm against her chest.
A heartbeat.
Steady. Strange. Intimate.
It wasn't hers.
But it had become her home.
---
Two days later, her mother returned with a small surprise: an old file folder, handed to her by a nurse who had been cleaning out the donor's pre-op waiting room.
Inside was a single note, written on a hospital paper napkin:
> "She has the kind of smile that makes dying feel like a worthy price. If she wakes up, don't tell her it was me. Let her live freely."
No name. No signature.
But the handwriting was delicate. Careful. As if every letter mattered.
Kabita stared at it for a long time.
Her hand trembled slightly as she folded it back.
She didn't know his face.
But she was beginning to know his soul.
---
The nurse who had handed over the file looked at her curiously.
"I don't know much about him," she admitted. "But everyone said the same thing. He was in love. Deeply. Silently. He never once asked for anything. Not even to be remembered."
Kabita stared out the window, the city lights twinkling like fireflies.
"But he is remembered," she whispered. "By every breath I take."
The nurse nodded softly. "We don't know his name, but we all called him one thing…"
Kabita looked up.
"…The Lover," the nurse finished. "He never told us who he was. But everyone knew what he felt."
---
And so the name stuck.
In the hospital hallways, in whispered stories, in half-told rumors.
The man who gave his life for her was only known as The Lover.
A faceless heartbeat.
A stranger's sacrifice.
A love too pure to be claimed.
Kabita wondered, sometimes, if he was watching from somewhere.
If he knew she lived.
If he was proud.
---
She never found the letter. Because there was no letter left.
But every time she pressed her hand over her chest, she felt something stir—not memory, but knowing.
She didn't know his name.
But she felt his love.
And that was a weight heavier than any truth.
.
.
The air was heavy in her lungs.
It had been three weeks since she'd returned from the edge of death. She could walk now—unsteadily, but on her own. She could dress herself, brush her hair, even laugh when her mother cracked a rare joke. On the surface, Kabita was healing.
But the inside? That was a battlefield of silence.
And questions.
She stood by the window of the recovery suite one evening, watching planes take off from the distant airport runway, glowing in the dusk like mechanical stars. Once, that had been her world—flight, sky, movement, ambition. Once, she was unstoppable.
And now…
Now, everything was a riddle stitched together with pain.
She turned as a knock came at the door.
Her mother peeked in. "Beta, someone is here to see you."
Kabita raised an eyebrow. "Who?"
Her mother opened the door wider—and in stepped Ravi.
Her fiancé.
Tall, handsome, sharply dressed in a blue blazer. He was the picture of elegance. And yet, there was a stiffness in his movements, an unfamiliar awkwardness in the way he held himself. Like a stranger borrowing someone else's body.
Kabita's eyes narrowed. "It's been three weeks."
He smiled sheepishly. "I… I came as soon as I could."
She didn't return the smile.
Her voice was calm. Too calm. "Where were you when I was dying?"
Ravi walked over, hands out. "Kabita, you have no idea—my flight was grounded in Hong Kong. There was a storm, communications were down. I tried—"
"You tried?" Her voice cracked now, rising with emotion she couldn't contain. "Do you know what it felt like to wake up and realize the man I was engaged to didn't even visit me while I was in a coma?"
He took a deep breath. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't expect this kind of accusation. I've been worried sick. And now you're blaming me for something I had no control over—"
"You could have been here!" she snapped. "And if you couldn't come, you could've called. Written. Sent something."
He hesitated.
Kabita stared at him—really stared—and saw the truth hiding beneath the crease of his brows, the twitch of his lips.
"You weren't in Hong Kong, were you?"
Silence.
"Ravi?"
He looked away.
"I needed time," he muttered. "Time to think."
"Think?" Her heart thundered. "Think about what?"
His voice grew defensive. "Kabita, I'm not a saint, okay? When the news came… when the doctors said you might not wake up… I was shocked. I didn't know what to do."
"So you ran," she said flatly.
He didn't deny it.
---
That night, Kabita couldn't sleep.
She lay awake, the moonlight spilling across her bedsheets. Her fingers rested over her chest, feeling the pulse beneath the skin.
Not just a heartbeat. A memory.
He would have stayed.
She didn't even know his name, and yet she was sure.
He wouldn't have run.
The realization clawed at her from the inside. Not just sadness. Rage.
The man who had promised to love her had left her behind.
And the one who loved her in silence had died for her.
It wasn't fair.
It wasn't right.
And yet… it was the truth.
---
A few days later, she asked Dr. Sinha a question she hadn't dared to before.
"Was there anyone else with the same blood type as me?" she asked quietly.
Dr. Sinha looked surprised. "What do you mean?"
Kabita's voice shook. "Anyone else who could've donated… who was close to me?"
Dr. Sinha hesitated.
"That information is sensitive—"
"I'm not asking for full details. Just… someone. Anyone. My blood group is AB negative. One of the rarest. I need to know if there was anyone in my life who could've saved me… but didn't."
The doctor's eyes softened. "There was… one."
Kabita's stomach dropped.
"Who?"
---
She didn't cry when she found out.
She didn't even blink.
She just stared at the wall in front of her, heart silent in her ears, as Dr. Sinha confirmed what she already suspected.
Ravi.
Her fiancé.
The man who promised her forever. The one who put a ring on her finger and kissed her in front of the world.
He had the same blood group.
He was a match.
He could have saved her.
But he chose not to.
---
The confrontation came three days later.
They met in the hospital courtyard. A cool breeze rustled the trees above them. Birds chirped somewhere in the distance. It should've been peaceful.
It wasn't.
Kabita stood tall, hands clenched at her sides.
Ravi sat on the bench, legs crossed casually. Too casually.
"You knew," she said.
He didn't answer.
"You knew you were a match. You could've saved me. You could've given me your heart. But you didn't."
Ravi stood. "Kabita, listen to yourself. You're talking like I'm some kind of villain. I loved you. I still do. But what you're asking…"
He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"…no one is expected to do that."
"You were supposed to be the one person who wouldn't need to be asked."
He flinched.
"You said you'd die for me," she said. "And when the moment came—you ran."
His voice cracked. "I was scared, okay? Scared of losing my future. My career. My life. I couldn't just throw everything away!"
"And someone else did!" she screamed. "Someone who didn't owe me anything! Someone who just… loved me."
Ravi looked down. "You're right."
Kabita's chest rose and fell in sharp breaths.
"I don't know who he was," she whispered. "But I feel him. Every day. I carry him inside me. And every beat reminds me of what real love is."
Ravi opened his mouth—but no words came.
"I'm done," she said finally. "We're done."
And she turned and walked away.
---
That night, Kabita wrote in her journal.
> "Love isn't in the promises. It's in the choices.
I once believed words more than silence.
Now, I know better.
The loudest love is the one that speaks through sacrifice."
.
.
That evening, the world was still.
Kabita stood alone on the hospital rooftop. The sky was cloudless, vast. Below her, life moved on—cars, conversations, distant city lights. But above, there was only the hush of wind and stars blinking softly.
She closed her eyes, breathing deeply.
That confrontation with Ravi had left her gutted—but clear. The wound he left would heal. And in its place, something else had begun to bloom: purpose. A quiet desire to know who the man was whose heart beat in her chest. Not just his name—but his life. His dreams. His face.
He had died for her.
But what happened after?
She frowned.
What happened to his body?
Kabita blinked.
Why hadn't she thought of it sooner?
A full heart transplant wasn't something subtle. There had to be a body. There had to be funeral records, a death certificate, a cremation report—something. A body doesn't disappear after giving away a heart.
So why… had no one mentioned any of it?
Her father, who had chased every lead.
The doctors, who spoke of the donor like a whisper.
Even the nurse, who gave her that one small napkin of a note…
Not one person had said what became of him.
No funeral.
No ashes.
No remains.
She turned sharply, her mind racing.
She made her way down the stairs, ignoring the elevator. Her steps were frantic, her breath sharp.
The hospital was quiet this late at night, but a few night-shift staff lingered at their stations. Kabita made her way to the administrative desk.
"Excuse me," she said to the sleepy clerk, "I need to check something."
The woman looked up. "Miss Kabita. Are you alright?"
"Yes. I just… I need to know what happened to the heart donor's body. After the surgery."
The woman blinked. "I'm not sure we have access to that info. The donor requested anonymity, and the arrangements were—" she checked the computer "—handled privately."
"Privately?" Kabita repeated. "By who?"
The woman scrolled. Then paused. Her brow furrowed.
"There's… no name here. No family claim. No funeral home. Nothing."
Kabita leaned forward. "Nothing? That's not possible. There has to be something. Even unclaimed bodies go through legal channels."
"I'm telling you… it says: 'Disposition handled per donor's prior request.' And then it just… ends."
She printed the page and handed it to Kabita.
At the bottom, one line stood out in all caps:
> "BODY RELEASED INTO SPECIAL HANDLING. NO PUBLIC RECORD."
Special handling?
No public record?
It felt like a ghost trail.
Kabita left the desk with the paper crumpled in her fist. Her heart raced—not just with confusion, but a strange, cold dread.
Who was he?
And why was his death… erased?
Had he been a nobody?
Or… someone whose story was never meant to be told?
Suddenly, it wasn't just about honoring him.
It was about uncovering him.
Because somewhere out there, the rest of his story was waiting.
And she owed him that much.