She couldn’t look at Mr. Kho. Not yet.
Mr. Kho’s jaw tightened, grief and fear flickering in his expression like lightning behind clouds. But after a beat, he straightened.
“He’s breathing. That’s good. That’s really good.” He exhaled like he hadn’t taken a full breath since stepping onstage. “We just need to wait for the medics.”
His voice held steady, but it quivered underneath.
“You’ve done enough, Riya,” he added more gently. “Let them take it from here.”
She nodded, barely. She wrapped her arms around herself—not for warmth but because if she didn’t, she might come apart.
She didn’t move when the paramedics arrived. Not when they lifted Kian’s body onto the stretcher. Not when Mr. Kho bent over his son and whispered something only the two of them could hear.
Her feet stayed rooted, her gaze locked on the space where Kian had fallen.
Then Riya looked up.
Sirah khala stood at the edge of the stage, her face unreadable, but her eyes shining like flares. Behind her, Riya’s parents and sisters filled the wings like a row of pillars. No one spoke. They didn’t need to.
Riya’s eyes drifted back to Kian as they wheeled him offstage, his hand curled loosely at his side.
Still reaching, even now.
Chapter 34
Seven Months Later
The gym had been transformed. Not magically—at least, not in the usual sense.
Paper lanterns floated above ivy-choked beams. Flickering golden fairy lights tangled through a trellis archway. The walls had disappeared behind gauzy curtains and fake hedges.
An attempt at elegance. Of fairy-tale enchantment.
Close enough, at least.
Riya stood near the edge of the dance floor, hands clasping a clipboard, watching couples sway to a slow Coldplay song.
After some convincing, she’d decided to wear the baby-blue dress that her sisters had gotten her (“It’s givingCinderella!” Nyra had crowed).
Seven months had passed since the Talent Show. According to Mr. Kho, the hospital had discharged Kian a few days later—but not before giving him a doctor’s note so they could reschedule his Berklee audition and perform remotely. No signs of a concussion. Nothing abnormal on the MRI. He was lucid, alert, responsive, if a little prickly. Apparently, he’d swatted at the nurse who’d tried to take his temperature, muttering something aboutpersonal space.
But when Riya called to ask if she could visit, Mr. Khohad passed along the message. And Kian had only blinked in confusion.
“Riya?” he’d repeated, sitting up in bed. “Wait... do you mean that girl from middle school?”
That’s when Mr. Kho began to worry.
It didn’t make sense. Kian seemed perfectly healthy. His memories of school, his father, were all intact. The remote audition had gone smoothly, too.
But all his memories of Riya—for the past month—had blurred. Like they’d been smudged out.
“Maybe it’s stress,” Mr. Kho had said gently over the phone. “Maybe he just needs time.”
Riya had said nothing. Because to her, it made perfect sense. The curse had been broken. And with it, Kian’s memories of the one who’d cast it.
So she kept her distance. Maybe Mr. Kho was right—maybe Kian just needed time. And she wouldn’t risk unraveling what little healing he’d managed.
Even so, she missed him.
