The number followed her everywhere. Weeks had stretched into months since Ira first folded that damp piece of paper and tucked it into her notebook. Yet the digits had carved themselves into her memory. She could almost see them written across the ceiling at night when she tried to sleep. She could hear them whispering at the edges of her thoughts whenever the world grew quiet.

She told herself she would not use it. Not now, not soon, perhaps not ever. And yet, one night, lying on her bed with the fan spinning lazily overhead, she opened her phone. Her chest tightened as her thumb hovered over the screen. She typed the words slowly, erasing them once, then writing them again.

Hello. This is Ira. Sunaina’s daughter.

Her hand trembled as she pressed send.

Minutes dragged like hours. The silence from the other side was unbearable, stretching so long she began to think the number was wrong, that it belonged to someone else entirely. Then the phone buzzed.

Who?

Her heart stumbled. She typed quickly, afraid if she hesitated, she would lose her nerve. Sunaina always told me that when I turned eighteen, she would give me your number. She said it would be my choice if I ever wanted to reach out. So… here I am.

The reply came almost instantly. Your father is dead.

Her breath caught. She stared at the screen, unblinking.

What do you mean? Are you saying you’re not Madhav?

I said your father is dead. Stop texting.

The words repeated, again and again, each message a blunt knife. Your father is dead. Your father is dead. For almost an hour he sent nothing else. Ira’s certaintybegan to blur. Maybe her mother was wrong. Maybe this was someone else entirely.

And then, without warning, her phone rang.

The screen glowed with an unknown number. She hesitated only a second before answering.

Hello?

The voice that came was gravelly, roughened by age and smoke. Who is this?

She froze. Something in that voice — a rhythm, a heaviness — pulled at her. She had never heard him before, and yet she knew.

Madhav, she whispered.

A long silence followed. Then came a sigh. Yes. It’s me.

Her pulse hammered so hard she thought the phone would pick it up.

He spoke quickly, as though afraid she might vanish if he paused. I want to see you.

I’ll come to your city. But you must meet me alone. Do not tell your mother. Do not tell

anyone. We will stay in a hotel room. Just us.

Her grip tightened on the phone. Why a hotel? Why not somewhere else? A café, maybe?

They won’t understand, he snapped. They’ll stop us. Promise me you won’t tell anyone. Promise me, Ira.

Her stomach knotted. The words pressed against her skin like thorns. She wanted to believe, wanted to pretend this was only a father desperate for connection, but unease curled inside her. She forced a steady voice. I’ll… think about it.

He softened suddenly. Good girl. Download this app. We can video call until we meet.

Against her better judgment, she did.

Hours later, the notification blinked. A request. She accepted.His face appeared, grainy, lit by the glow of a single bulb. The years had carved into him — sunken eyes, sallow skin, hair streaked with gray — but it was him.

She tried to find some piece of him that might feel familiar, something that could make this stranger a father. So it’s really you, she said, her voice thin.

Yes. It’s me, he murmured. His eyes darted across the screen, restless. Then, without preamble, he said, Show me.

Ira frowned. Show you what?

Your body. Flash me.

Her stomach lurched. What?

You’re grown now. Let me see. Just once.

The world tilted. You’re my father.

His lips curled into something between a laugh and a snarl. And? You’re beautiful.

Just show me. Don’t act shy.

Her hands shook violently. No. I won’t—

Before she could finish, the camera flipped. The image filled her screen. Obscene.

Revolting.

Her breath tore out of her. She ended the call so fast the silence afterwards roared in her ears.

She sat frozen in the darkness, phone still clutched in her hand. It was two in the morning.

The tears came hot and sudden, burning her cheeks as she curled into herself, knees to chest. The fragments of every rumour she had ever overheard about him replayed in her mind. Drunkard. Monster. Predator. She had wanted to believe otherwise, to give him the benefit of the doubt, to imagine there might still be something salvageable between them.

But the truth had bared itself in the cruelest way.He was not her father. Not in any way that mattered. He was only the sperm donor. A stranger she should never have let in.

And now, she knew, silence was not an inheritance she had to accept. It was a choice she would never make again.