It had been three weeks since Sia arrived in Shimla, and the café had quietly become a part of her. The morning light through the windows, the comforting weight of mugs in her hand, even the tiny bell that rang every time the door opened — all of it felt like routine now, like a life slowly forming shape.

But that morning was different.

Swara didn’t come downstairs.

Sia found her still in bed, pale and burning with fever, her forehead damp with sweat. She stirred slightly when Sia touched her shoulder.

“You need rest aunty” Sia whispered.

Swara gave a weak nod. “The café—”

“I’ll manage it, but your health is important to me the most” Sia said, firmer than she thought she could.

Swara blinked at her. “There’s a delivery list... near the spice shelf... and the dairy guy comes at ten.”

“I’ll handle it aunty” Sia said again, more certain now.

The day stretched ahead like a test she hadn’t studied for.

The café opened late — just by fifteen minutes — but still, it felt like a stumble. Sia tied her dupatta tighter and exhaled. She unlocked the door, flipped the sign, and stepped behind the counter.

The first hour was shaky. She burnt two toasts, spilled milk while making coffee, and forgot which customer ordered black coffee. But no one yelled. A few smiled. One woman even said, “First day?” and Sia just nodded, cheeks pink.

At ten, the dairy delivery arrived. She signed the invoice with a shaking hand, nearly forgetting to check the cartons. At eleven, she had to run to the corner store — a list clutched in her hand, heart racing as she bought tea leaves, sugar, and a bag of fresh lemons.

Balancing the groceries in her arms, she walked back briskly. The air outside was cold, but her skin was warm with adrenaline. It felt strange — this responsibility. Heavy, yes — but also strangely empowering.

Back at the café, she moved faster. Sharper. Her hands stopped trembling. She served, cleaned, smiled, refilled cups — and didn’t stop moving until the last customer left just before sunset. By the time she locked the door and closed the curtains, her feet ached and her hair was a mess. But she was smiling. She brought a bowl of soup to Swara’s room, carefully setting it on the bedside table.

Swara stirred awake. “Everything alright?”

Sia nodded. “No one died. The chai was drinkable. And your spice shelf is a disaster, by the way.”

Swara let out a weak laugh. “I knew you’d manage.”

Sia looked at her, eyes soft. “I did more than manage.”

Swara smiled and closed her eyes again, resting easier now.

And for Sia — the girl who once walked into Shimla afraid to speak, afraid to be seen — today wasn’t just about handling a café.

It was the day she realized she could handle herself.

The next morning, Swara was still unwell. Her fever hadn’t broken, and her voice had gone hoarse. “You should rest another day,” Sia said firmly, setting a cool cloth on her forehead.

Swara tried to protest, but Sia gave her a look — one she must’ve learned from Swara herself. That mix of quiet care and stern finality. “I’ve got this,” Sia said. And Swara, exhausted, didn’t argue.

The café felt a little easier today. Sia moved faster, more confidently. She remembered who liked extra sugar, who wants chai and who wants coffee, who brought their own teacup, and which stool creaked the most. But the shelves were running low again. No more ginger. Almost out of eggs. She scribbled a list and wrapped her shawl tighter before stepping out into the chilly morning as it was almost 10AM.

The market was a short walk away — winding roads, honking scooters, children chasing each other across footpaths. She clutched the bag tightly, her pace quick but steady.

She crossed the main road, heading toward the spice shop, when it happened.

A sharp horn.
A flash of red.
The screech of tires.
And then — impact.

Sia didn’t even scream. Just a gasp as her body hit the ground hard, groceries spilling across the street. The world spun, voices blurring around her.

“She’s bleeding—”
“Somebody call for help!”
“Where’s her phone?”

Someone was holding her head up, speaking softly. Her vision swam, a dull ache spreading across her side.

But all she could think, as darkness edged her vision, was one thing: Her Swara Aunty is alone.