Web Of Wishes

People say angels are always around us. They watch us, listen to our prayers, and sometimes, if they feel kind, they bless us with small miracles. But what if someone never prays? What if they stop believing that God or an angel will help them?

That was Niyati.

A simple girl who had just finished college and started searching for a job. Her grades were not great, and she didn’t have any strong work experience. So, most of her job interviews ended with rejection. Every time she got rejected, she didn’t just feel bad about herself; she also felt guilty for being a burden on her parents. Because her parents weren’t supportive, they never encouraged her. Instead, they made fun of her struggles.

"We spent so much on your education for this?"

"Look at you now, can’t even get a proper job."

They sent her some money every month, just enough to pay her PG rent and a little extra. That money was never enough to travel to different places for interviews. Sometimes she skipped meals, sometimes she walked instead of taking a bus. Life was never smooth.

Still, somehow, after many struggles, she managed to get a small job in a company. Her salary wasn’t big, but it was her own hard-earned money. She felt proud of herself, but her parents didn’t.

"This is all you could do?"

"We had bigger dreams for you."

Their words hurt more than failures. But Niyati never cried in front of them. She never prayed to God. She never folded her hands in front of any temple. In her heart, she had only one strange thought:

"I wish some ghost or devil were with me. At least they would have helped me."

It was not a normal wish. But it was honest. And sometimes, the universe listens more carefully to strange, lonely wishes than loud, fake prayers.

A few months later, things changed again. Her parents called one evening. Their tone was strong and clear.

"We have found a boy for you. He is well-settled, looks decent, and his family is also good. They are even ready to take care of all the wedding expenses."

Niyati felt her heart sink. She struggled to find a job, and she loved it. So she was working hard, and even her higher-ups would appreciate her talent. But there was no use. Her opinion didn’t matter. She didn’t say no. She met the boy. He was polite and smiling. His parents were soft-spoken, too. But Niyati knew this was not love. It was a deal. Her parents had taken money from them. She was being given away like a responsibility they didn’t want anymore.

And so, Niyati said yes.

Marriage, for most girls, is sold as a new beginning. A fresh chapter with laughter, companionship, and slow-growing love. But for Niyati, it began like a quiet storm, calm on the surface, yet unsettling in every corner.

A few weeks into her married life, the truth began to unfold. Her husband, Rajeev, was not cruel, but he was careless. A man of leisure and laziness, whose days were spent lying on the sofa with snacks in one hand and the television remote in the other. His nights were no different: late dinners, idle chatter, and long sleeps. He had no job, no dreams, no urgency.

All he knew was how to spend on things he didn’t need and people he didn’t care about. His family’s money, though plenty for now, was slipping away like water through a loose fist. And everyone around him seemed blind to it. Or perhaps, they chose to look away. It didn’t take long for Niyati to understand the unspoken truth: why no woman had agreed to marry Rajeev before her, not because he lacked charm, but because he lacked substance. And Niyati? She had simply never been given a choice.

Still, she tried. She gave gentle suggestions, hinted about savings, warned him, carefully, with respect, with softness. But Raghav would only smile and wave her off.

"It’s not so bad, Niyati."

"We’ll manage somehow."

Even his parents, who once appeared warm, would join in with their hollow reassurances.

"Don’t worry, beta, life will settle. It always does."

But Niyati knew life didn’t "settle" on its own. It demanded effort, sacrifice, and the kind of strength she had run out of long ago. Some nights, while cleaning the kitchen long after everyone had eaten and gone to sleep, she would sit on the cold floor, stare at the quiet walls, and whisper with a tired smile,

"Maybe a devil with superpowers would be nice. At least he’d solve my problems."

She was only half joking. The other half of her truly believed it. With time, her responsibilities grew heavier. She became the only one holding the house together. From sweeping floors to paying bills, from managing groceries to keeping peace between family members, she moved like a silent shadow, never seen, never thanked.

Years passed. And then, her son was born.

It should have been a moment of joy. And in some corner of her heart, it was. But motherhood arrived not like a blessing, but like a weight on an already broken back. Her body was still healing when new demands began to rise. Sleepless nights. Endless crying. No support. No time to breathe. The world praised mothers for their strength, but no one asked them if they were tired of being strong.

Niyati suffered in silence. The doctors called it postpartum stress. But for her, it felt like drowning, with a baby in her arms and no one to pull her out. Whenever the baby cried endlessly, or spilled food after hours of cleaning, or woke her up just when she had closed her eyes, her patience would tremble.

And each time she felt herself breaking, she didn't ask for miracles. She didn’t hope for angels. She’d close her eyes and think,

"If there truly is a devil... I hope he finds me. Not to scare me, but to save me."

Time has a strange way of slipping through the cracks of everyday life. One day, you’re rocking a newborn in your arms, and the next, you’re ironing school uniforms and packing lunchboxes. For Niyati, the years passed not in memories, but in routines, repeated days of silent service, lived not as a mother or wife, but as something in between a housemaid and a machine.

Her son, Ved, had grown up quickly. He was seven now, sharp, loud, and demanding. He had inherited his father’s easy charm and his grandparents’ sense of entitlement. The house, once heavy with silence, now echoed with laughter and games, but none of that reached her. To them, she was not Amma, but a background presence. A figure in the kitchen who appeared with food, wiped messes, and folded clothes. A shadow without voice, without name.

Affection was something she gave, not something she received. One day, the clock had barely struck noon when the door burst open with a loud thud. Ved stormed in, school bag dangling from one shoulder, his little face flushed with anger.

“Maaa!” he yelled from the living room.

Niyati was in the kitchen, kneading dough with dry fingers and a dry heart. Hearing his voice, she wiped her hands quickly and walked out.

“What happened, Ved?” she asked, concern softening her tired voice.

“You forgot my English textbook today!” he shouted, eyes brimming with frustration. “Do you know how humiliating it was in class? Everyone laughed!”

Something in her snapped.

“You’re seven now, Ved,” she said sharply. “It’s your bag, your book, you should be checking everything before you leave.”

Before he could reply, her mother-in-law appeared from the bedroom, adjusting her saree pleats like she had stepped onto a drama stage.

“Arrey beta, don’t shout at the child,” she said, placing a comforting hand on Aarav’s head. Then, turning to Niyati with a mild scolding tone, “He’s just a small boy. Can’t you be a little more careful? You should’ve packed it.”

Niyati didn’t reply.

She stood there for a second, her lips tight, her hands still slightly sticky with flour. Then she turned around silently and walked back into the kitchen. From there, she could still hear everything. Ved's loud complaints, his exaggerated stories of embarrassment, and his grandparents’ casual criticisms. They didn’t even bother to whisper. Their words floated clearly into the kitchen, like arrows dipped in disrespect.

And Niyati stood still.

Her back hurt. Her arms ached. Her mind screamed with all the things she would never be allowed to say. But more than her body, it was her heart that had gone numb. Years of serving without love had turned her into something less than human. A robot in a saree. A housewife with no home of her own.

She rubbed her face with the end of her pallu, as if trying to wipe away not just the sweat but the entire weight of her life. Her eyes burned, not with tears, but with something darker. A deep sigh escaped her lips, long, tired, and full of surrender. And with tear drops in her eyes, almost like a joke, she whispered under her breath,

"Hey… devil. Please come. Come and help me."

It wasn’t a prayer. It wasn’t a cry for help. It was something older than both, a pact between pain and the unknown.

The kitchen stood silent, but her mind wasn’t. Niyati’s whisper had left her lips like a prayer carved out of despair, floating into the still air. And then… the air shifted.

At first, she thought it was a gas leak, the way a faint scent prickled her nose, the way a strange warmth filled the air. Her eyes darted to the stove, the windows, the ceiling. But nothing seemed wrong, nothing except the dark smoke that had begun to rise from the floor like a shadow stretching upward.

Thick, black, and slow like molasses, the smoke twirled lazily around her. Before she could step back, the world around her began to fade—not into darkness, but into a strange, glowing white. The walls of the kitchen dissolved. The ceiling vanished. The ticking clock disappeared. She stood in an endless white space, wrapped in silence, wrapped in smoke.

From the center of it, the black mist began to shape itself. First, a silhouette. Then a form. Horns, eyes, a body half-man, half-mystery.

A devil...

Niyati should’ve screamed. But she didn’t. Instead, a small smile curved her lips, like someone meeting an old friend after a long journey. She closed her eyes gently and exhaled as if releasing a burden that had sat on her chest for years.

"Finally… you came today, huh?"

The devil paused. One of his dark eyebrows arched, his red eyes blinking in surprise. A small smirk tugged at his lips.

“You are a strange woman,” he said, his voice a deep echo, both ancient and amused. “Out of all the faces I’ve seen… you are the strangest.”

She chuckled softly. For the first time in years, the sound of her own laughter didn’t feel foreign. The smoke still danced around her, but it no longer scared her. She felt calm. Still. Almost free. She sat down slowly on the floor of that white void, her saree folding beneath her, eyes meeting the devil's without fear. He leaned closer, and the smoke coiled gently around her like a curtain. His voice dropped to a whisper, brushing her ear.

“So… tell me. What do you want?”

Niyati smiled again. There was no rush in her voice, no desperation. Just curiosity.

“First, you sit down,” she said, nodding to the floor beside her. “And then tell me… how do you grant wishes? And what are the consequences?”

The devil raised an amused brow and let out a low sigh. He lowered himself beside her, the black mist folding into stillness.

“No consequences,” he said, almost lazily. “You ask. I give. That’s all.”

She looked at him for a moment, eyes steady, voice calm.

“No,” she said softly. “I’ve lived enough to know… nothing in this life is that easy.”

The devil laughed, a quiet, dry laugh that echoed through the space like a song only shadows knew. And yet, even he could not deny, this was no ordinary woman before him.

This was someone who didn’t cry for help. She called darkness like an equal.

The devil observed her carefully, this woman who bore silence like armour and pain like a second skin. He realized something few ever understood: with her, there was no room for tricks or riddles. Only the truth would work.

So, he spoke plainly.

“I’ve heard your wishes before,” he said, his voice low and honest, “Every time you whispered into the dark, I was there. But your guardian angel… never allowed me to come close. He stood like a wall, protecting you, pushing me away. You were not summoning me then, only aching for peace. But today… Today, you called. You didn’t wish, you summoned. And that, even your angel couldn’t stop.”

Niyati tilted her head slightly, a thoughtful smile playing on her lips. “If I had known that,” she said dryly, “I would’ve summoned you much earlier.”

The devil let out a quiet laugh, amused by her calmness in the face of something most would fear. “If you wish,” he said, “I can take you back in time. To the moment it all began. You can choose differently. Build a new life. Make better choices.”

She looked at him, surprised.

“Will you be there with me?” she asked, half-teasing, half-curious. “Will you walk beside me through that new life?”

The devil raised a brow. “You’re being greedy now,” he said, a playful smirk on his lips. “I grant wishes. I don’t stay forever.”

Niyati leaned back, let out a soft breath, and waved her hand in dismissal.

“I don’t have the patience to live it all over again,” she said. “I’ve endured enough. I don’t want to start from scratch.”

The devil nodded, accepting her choice.

“Then tell me,” he asked gently, “what do you wish for?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes grew distant, her thoughts like waves crashing into one another.

“How can I make only one wish,” she said slowly, “when everything in my life is broken? How do I choose one piece when the whole painting is cracked?”

The devil smiled. “I never said you had just one,” he replied. “Let’s do one thing, I will give you five hours. In those five hours, you may wish for as many things as your heart desires. Every dream, every escape, every healing thought, I’ll grant them all.”

Her eyes lit up like a child who had just been given the whole sky.

“Really? That easily? What’s the catch?”

The devil laughed again, a deep, warm laugh that didn’t echo with evil, but with mischief.

“I am not God,” he said. “Nor am I an angel who deals in sacrifices and sermons. I am just… the one who listens when no one else does.”

She leaned forward slightly, her face curious, a flicker of light returning to her eyes.

“Then,” she whispered, “will you listen to a story I tell you?”

The devil looked at her, eyebrows rising. “Was that a wish?”

She smiled and shook her head. “No. But I want my life to become the story I’m about to tell.”

For the first time, he sat cross-legged before a human who did not ask for riches, revenge, or escape, but for a story. He nodded, solemn and still. He would listen. He would not interrupt, not question. For in her tale, he knew, lay the tangled thread of every buried wish, every unspoken desire. And she began weaving the web. With each word she spoke, her voice grew lighter. Her heart poured out dreams like pearls, soft, painful, beautiful.

The devil listened like time itself had stopped. The smoke around them was still now, as if the universe, too, had leaned in to hear. Hours passed.

And when her story reached the end, she looked at him and said, “At seventy, I will die a peaceful death. My hair will be grey, my hands wrinkled, but my heart will be full. My family will cry for me. They will miss me. And they will remember me as someone who mattered.”

The devil’s expression changed. For a moment, his eternal calm cracked into something almost human.

“Seventy?” he asked softly. “Is that enough?”

Niyati smiled. Not a sad smile, but a full one.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s enough. So please, make this story come true.”

The devil said nothing. He simply leaned forward and touched her head, like a man gently patting a lost puppy, not with pity, but with care. And as his fingers brushed her forehead, Niyati’s eyes fluttered closed. The white space began to blur. The smoke grew thin. She fainted peacefully, silently, like a woman who had finally emptied all the sorrow from her chest. And in the quiet that followed, the devil whispered to the wind,

"Your story has been written, dear one… Now, let’s make it real."

The morning light slipped through the curtains, casting golden streaks across the room. Birds chirped outside as if rehearsing a tune too cheerful for the house that had long forgotten joy. Niyati stirred slowly, her body aching in familiar places. Her eyes opened to find the same ceiling, the same peeling corner on the wall… and beside her, Ved still asleep, curled in his usual careless way, his mouth slightly open, breathing in peaceful rhythm.

She sat up, rubbed her forehead, and looked around. For a moment, everything felt too normal. She sighed deeply.

"It must’ve been a dream," she thought, "Or one of those wild, tired thoughts that run inside my mind when the silence becomes too loud."

She gathered her hair, twisted it into a loose knot, and walked toward the door of the bedroom. She opened it, expecting to see the same unwashed plates, the morning mess, the usual complaints waiting like alarm bells. But what she saw… made her freeze.

There, in the hallway, stood Rajeev.

Not in his usual loose T-shirt and crumpled shorts.

He was wearing a crisp formal shirt tucked neatly into trousers. A tie hung perfectly from his neck. His sleeves were half rolled, and a faint smell of aftershave hung in the air. His hair was combed back.

He looked like a man who had just stepped out of a corporate magazine. He smiled at her, warm and gentle.

“Good morning, dear,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

Niyati’s lips parted, but no words came out. Before she could respond, her father-in-law walked in from outside. He was holding a cloth bag filled with milk packets and fresh vegetables, and in his other hand, a folded newspaper. He saw her and smiled.

“How are you, beti?” he asked kindly. “You look a little tired.”

Her heart skipped a beat. This was not the man who barked instructions from the sofa. This was not the house where she had to run to the market every morning before the sun rose. She looked at him, then at Rajeev again. They were both standing there, calm, helpful, smiling. Tears welled up in her eyes, uninvited but honest. She blinked, but they rolled down freely.

“I… I’m fine,” she whispered, her voice caught between surprise and relief.

Rajeev stepped closer and placed a hand gently on her shoulder.

“What happened, dear?” he asked with concern. “Does something hurt?”

Her father-in-law joined, his expression soft with care.

“Yes, Niyati… yesterday you fainted, remember? You were out cold for some time. Are you alright now?”

She stood there, stunned, half in disbelief, half in wonder. She could still feel the memory of smoke, of a whisper in her ear, of a promise made in silence.

And now… this?

It felt like she had opened the door not just to the hallway, but to a different life altogether. A chapter rewritten. A world where her story had quietly begun to change. She wiped her tears, still unsure if she was dreaming or awake.

“I’m alright,” Niyati finally said with a soft smile, wiping the last of her tears.

Rajeev nodded and gently stepped aside, allowing her to go inside. She walked towards the washroom, her heart still unsure if what she was experiencing was real or a beautiful illusion meant to vanish any moment. By the time, the scent of breakfast had filled the house. In the kitchen, her mother-in-law was at the stove, humming an old tune while the pan sizzled with warmth.

“Go freshen up, beti,” she said, turning with a smile. “I’ve kept your bed coffee ready. Once you're done, come sit and have breakfast with us.”

Niyati stood there for a moment, absorbing those words like a balm on old wounds. She nodded, her throat tight with gratitude. The house was alive, but not loud. It was moving, but not heavy on her shoulders. For the first time, she was not the only one holding it up.

She sat on the sofa, slowly, almost afraid it would vanish beneath her. The television remote lay beside her, untouched. With hesitant fingers, she picked it up and turned on the TV. A soft comedy show played, the kind she had always skipped past in her old life because there was always something to clean, cook, or fix.

Now, she sat back and watched. Like a free bird finally stretching her wings. Ved had become a different child, gentle, attentive. He packed his school bag the night before, woke up on time, and greeted her with a cheerful “Good morning, Amma” before rushing out with Rajeev, who now dropped him to school every day without fail.

When evening arrived, the door opened to the sound of laughter. Ved ran in and jumped into Niyati’s arms, wrapping her in a tight hug.

“Amma, today my teacher gave me a star! And Rahul dropped his lunchbox and I helped him!”

His words tumbled out like marbles, and she listened with a full heart. Her father-in-law gently pulled him away, cleaned his hands, and helped him change, while her mother-in-law served snacks to everyone, warm pakoras and fresh juice. No one waited for Niyati to do it. No one even asked her to move.

Later, Rajeev and his father sat down with Ved, helping him with his homework. The house that once rang with orders and complaints was now filled with calm laughter, casual conversation, and something even more respectful.

That night, after dinner, Niyati stood near the window, the cool breeze brushing against her skin. She gazed up at the quiet sky, where stars blinked gently, like silent witnesses to her new life.

From behind, Rajeev's arms wrapped around her.He leaned his chin on her shoulder, his voice a whisper. “What are you thinking about?”

She was quiet for a moment, her eyes still on the stars.

“Thinking about my parents,” she said softly.

Rajeev turned her towards him, his hands holding her gently by the arms. There was concern in his eyes.

“They… they passed away in that accident last year, didn’t they?”

Niyati didn’t answer. She just looked at him. He brought her head gently to his chest, stroking her hair.

“I know,” he said, “It must still hurt. It’s hard not to miss them.”

She closed her eyes. A strange calm washed over her. She hugged him slightly, resting her cheek against his shirt. And just then, a faint, almost wicked smile crept onto her lips.

“Yes,” she said. “I miss them.”

Rajeev held her close, unaware of the quiet storm beneath her calm voice.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’ll be with you always. You don’t have to carry anything alone.”

And in that moment, Niyati understood. Every word she had once spoken to the devil, every detail of the life she had wished for in that quiet story, was slowly, carefully, being woven into reality.

The web of wishes had begun to spin true.

With time, the world bent itself around Niyati’s wishes like threads drawn to a weaver’s hand. She was no longer the woman who cried in kitchens or whispered helplessly into the night. She had everything now: respect, love, control. And what once felt like a dream too distant had become her everyday.

But something else had quietly changed in her, too. She had grown… sharper. Her words, once silent, now carried weight. She spoke less, but each sentence had a hidden thorn, especially when it came to her mother-in-law.

The woman, once dominant and demanding, now moved around her with softness, apology, and respect. And Niyati, though she received it all with a smile, never forgot the years she spent unheard.

So, in her gentle voice, she began to mock about small things, forgotten keys, a wrongly folded bedsheet, burnt dal. Nothing harsh, nothing direct. But enough to remind who now held the throne.

The old woman would quietly apologise, sometimes even with tears in her eyes, but her love for Niyati never faded. She treated her like a daughter. But Niyati… didn’t forget. That’s what she had wished for, after all, 'let them love me, even when I hurt them.'

Years passed.

Her father-in-law passed away from a heart attack. The house grew quieter. A few years later, her mother-in-law too followed, her body giving way to age and emptiness. Niyati cried at the funeral. The right words, the right expressions, everything done like a perfect daughter-in-law.

But at night, alone in her room, she laughed, a soft, hollow laugh that bounced off the silence like a confession with no audience.

The story was still unfolding...

One ordinary morning, she happened to help an old, frail man who had collapsed on the pavement near a tea stall. She took him to a hospital, stayed beside him, spoke to doctors, and arranged medicines without expecting anything. Weeks later, the man called her to his home, a sprawling bungalow with silence in every corner.

He handed her a sealed envelope. “You reminded me of someone I lost long ago,” he said. “You have a fire I once had.”

After his death, the will was opened. To everyone’s shock, Niyati had been named the heir to his entire company. Not just wealth, but authority. She was appointed the CEO. She stepped into that office like she was born for it.

Crisp sarees, precise decisions, and a sharp mind that reshaped the company from the ground up. In less than two years, under her leadership, the firm bloomed, profits soared, and her name was etched into the corporate world like a signature of success. And the wishes came true, one by one. As if the universe now served her.

One afternoon, three familiar faces walked into her office. Former colleagues from her past life, the same people who once ignored her, mocked her broken English, and belittled her dreams. Now, they stood before her nervously, resumes in hand. They praised her rise, spoke with smiles soaked in politeness, and asked her if there were any vacancies in her company. She took the resumes with calm grace, eyes flicking through their credentials.

“Your profiles don’t match any of our current openings,” she said with a composed smile. “But I’ll forward them to HR and try.”

They thanked her, bowing slightly, calling her Ma’am, treating her like something holy. She nodded, and they left. But she knew exactly what she had done. She gave them hope. Hope without a future. The very illusion they once forced her to carry. She didn’t hate them. No. She just wanted them to feel what she once felt—small, unsure, invisible.

When Ved entered his intermediate years, another turn came quietly. Rajeev passed away. A natural calamity, the papers said. A tragedy. But to Niyati, it felt like a chapter closing in the very book she had once narrated to the devil.

Now, it was just her and Ved.

By then, Ved had grown into a young man, intelligent, driven, and proud to be her son. He looked up to her with eyes full of admiration. Neighbours spoke of her strength. Employees worshipped her talent. And Ved… he walked in her footsteps, determined to make her proud. He completed his education, refused to live off her name, and instead started a business of his own.

She watched him rise, just as she had written in her story.

Everything… was falling perfectly into place.

Years had passed like pages turning in a well-written novel. Niyati’s life flowed smoothly, as if it had been pre-approved by the universe itself—every detail unfolding with precision, every chapter rich with reward. She was no longer the broken girl from the kitchen.

She had become a name. A story. A legend...

But far away, in a quiet corner of the city, where sunlight filtered weakly through grey hospital glass, another story was still breathing. It was the third floor of a private hospital, where life often held on by threads invisible to the world. Room number 345.

Inside, a woman lay in silence. Machines hummed around her in a steady rhythm. Transparent tubes moved with soft pulses of fluid. The beeping of a monitor was the only sign that life still lingered within that motionless body. Her face was calm, her eyes gently closed as if she were in a deep, untroubled sleep. The sheets were white. Her hair, slightly scattered across the pillow, looked untouched by time. She hadn’t moved in months. And yet, she hadn’t left either.

The door creaked open. A man stepped in slowly. His beard had greyed, his eyes lined with sleepless nights. Behind him, a doctor followed, flipping through a file.

“Any signs?” the man asked, voice heavy but restrained. “Any improvements?”

The doctor sighed, pressing his lips together before speaking.

“No, Rajeev,” he said gently. “She remains in a coma. Technically, it’s a vegetative state… her brain shows minimal activity. We’re trying what we can. But I can’t promise anything. Just… keep hoping for a positive change.”

Rajeev nodded slowly. They both stood there for a moment, looking at the sleeping woman, then quietly stepped out, closing the door behind them with soft reverence. And once again, the room was silent.

Except this time, the silence wasn’t empty.

A thick black smoke began to unfurl near the corner of the room, curling slowly like ink dropped in water. It moved across the tiles, crept up toward the bed, and began to take form.

The devil had arrived...

His eyes were darker than the room itself, but not cruel. He stood beside Niyati, looking down at her with an unreadable expression. Beside her, on a chair no doctor or nurse had ever noticed, sat another presence, cloaked in light, still and composed.

The Guardian Angel...

He had been there all these months. Watching. Waiting. He turned his head toward the devil, eyes calm but sharp.

“Why did you lie to her?” he asked.

The devil didn’t speak immediately. He looked at Niyati with her closed eyes, her peaceful face. Then, finally, he answered.

“I didn’t lie,” he said quietly. “I gave her the life she wanted.”

WHAT REALLY HAPPENED?...

When Niyati whispered into the stillness, “Hey devil, please come and help me,” something ancient stirred beneath the folds of time. The world did not hear her, but the one she summoned did. In that instant, time itself paused.

Birds froze mid-flight. A boiling kettle stopped bubbling. The breeze outside halted in place. Inside that modest home, where sorrow lived quietly behind closed doors, every breath held still.

And deep in the abyss where fire roared and shadows walked, the devil opened his eyes. He had always been listening. Her voice, her sighs, her hidden cries had echoed through the dark corridors of his world. But now, she had called him. Summoned him with intention. With power. So he rose.

Dark wings spread, smoke swirled, and with his full might and pride, the devil ascended from the depths of hell to the mortal world. But just as he neared her, crossing realms in fury and glee, a beam of radiant light blocked his path.

There, cloaked in silence, stood the guardian angel.

“She summoned me,” the devil said with a lazy smirk, his voice echoing like thunder wrapped in silk. “Don’t get in my way.”

The angel’s calm never wavered. “And what do you intend to do?” he asked softly.

The devil’s smirk grew darker. His voice, laced with pride and dangerous affection, replied, “She is my beloved devotee. I will grant her every wish. I will make her world as she desires.”

The angel fell quiet for a moment, as if calculating the weight of the moment. Then he said firmly, “You may grant her wishes. But under one condition—you shall not cause the death of another, nor tamper with another soul’s destiny. Her wishes must not interfere with the innocent. You may bend her life, but not the world’s balance.”

The devil rolled his eyes, flicking his fingers with impatience. “You angels and your eternal rules... It’s your strings that make human lives so predictable and boring.”

Still, he nodded. “Fine. Let the game begin.”

And with that, the universe resumed its breath. The devil arrived not as a storm but as a presence. He had expected the usual: greed, lust for power, hunger for vengeance.

But what he saw stunned even him. Niyati wasn’t just broken. She wasn’t merely desperate. She was darkness clothed in patience. A poet of pain. She was dark. Clever. Beautifully damaged.

As she spoke, weaving her tale like a spider with silken threads, the devil found himself awed. Not by the size of her dreams—but by the detail. Her web of wishes was not random. It was a beautifully cruel novel of justice, control, and quiet revenge.

Had it been a simple wish, he would have granted it with pride, facing the consequences with a smirk. But what she had laid before him was not a wish. It was a web. A beautifully spun, dangerously entangled Web Of Wishes. She wanted a perfect world shaped to her liking, one that obeyed her, praised her, loved her, the way she was.

He needed to keep his promise to her and to the angel.

So, the devil found a path. A cruel, brilliant loophole.

He would not twist the lives of others to suit her wishes. He would not change the world. Instead, he would change her world. He touched her forehead gently, and Niyati collapsed in her kitchen with a soft thud.

When the family rushed to her, they found her unconscious, unresponsive. Her body was limp. Her skin was pale.

They tried to wake her, shouting, crying, panicking. But she didn’t move.

She was taken to the hospital.

The doctors rushed her into the emergency room. When they questioned the family, there was silence. They couldn’t answer even the most basic things: How long had she been sleeping poorly? Was she eating enough? Had she shown signs of weakness?

No one knew. Because no one had ever looked.

The doctor, frustrated, finally scolded them.

“You lived with her for years… and you don’t even know the woman’s state? Just her body condition shows how exhausted, how damaged she is. She’s been working like a machine—never cared for, never checked on. This is not just a coma. This is a collapse from a life no one saw.”

And with that, shame filled the hearts of those who had once taken her for granted.

From that day onward, their lives changed. They visited her regularly. They prayed. They began doing the very things she had once done, with trembling hands and clumsy steps, realising now how hard it was to hold a home together.

She lay silently in room 345… while inside her dreamscape, she ruled empires and tasted the sweetness of every wish come true.

And then one day, when Rajeev came and left, quietly wiping a tear from her still hand…

The black smoke returned. The devil appeared beside her bed, once more cloaked in shadow. And beside her, as always, sat the angel, his presence like a candle in the dark. He had been there all these months. Watching. Waiting. He turned his head toward the devil, eyes calm but sharp.

“Why did you lie to her?” he asked.

The devil didn’t speak immediately. He looked at Niyati with her closed eyes, her peaceful face. Then, finally, he answered.

“I didn’t lie,” he said quietly. “I gave her the life she wanted.”

The angel’s gaze did not waver. His voice, steady like the wind before a storm, echoed softly through the sterile air.

“In her mind,” he said, “not in this world.”

The devil exhaled with a strange mix of calm and melancholy. “She was broken,” he replied, his voice carrying no mockery this time. “She called to me, not to you. She whispered her wishes into the void… not into prayer. I came because she summoned me, not because I lured her.”

The angel’s brows furrowed. His voice was low, almost wounded.

“If you had just… shown her a little hope, granted her even one humble wish, and let her live her reality with dignity… maybe she would have eventually prayed. Maybe she would have believed in a miracle.”

The devil turned his face away, for once not wearing a grin. A flicker of regret passed through his eyes.

“Trust me,” he said, “she would never have called you. Or Him. Not even in her dreams. She had tasted too much bitterness for that.”

He walked closer to the angel, his steps silent as a shadow. Leaning near, he whispered, “Wasn’t her death already near? You know it. I know it. She would have died quietly in some kitchen corner—pathetically, forgotten, a burden even to those she fed.”

He paused, his eyes scanning Niyati’s sleeping face.

“But now?” he said. “Look what she got. Her family, for the first time, saw her. They understood her value. They pray for her. They carry guilt. In her illusion, she lived with dignity, respect, and love. And as she wished, she dies at the age of seventy. That date, my dear angel, matches exactly with the day her body gives up in this world.”

The angel’s lips parted, caught between silence and protest. But before he could speak, the devil looked straight into his eyes. His gaze was sharp.

“If you had watched her closely… if you had shown her even a single miracle before waiting for her prayer,” he whispered, “maybe… just maybe… she would’ve had faith in your world too.”

The angel stood, his wings trembling with unshed emotions. He opened his mouth to argue, to defend—but it was too late. The devil’s face twisted into a bitter smile, his eyes now glowing faintly red. And with a final smirk, he dissolved into dust, vanishing into the silence.

The angel sighed deeply and sat beside her once more. Taking her cold, fragile hand in his, he whispered:

“If only… if only you had seen a single miracle, and believed… your life would have bloomed in this world too.”

Time passed...

And so did the dream...

As the final threads of the Web of Wishes wove together, the illusion reached its quiet conclusion. A soft wind blew through her balcony in that imagined world. Niyati, now silver-haired and smiling gently, sat on her chair under the stars. She looked up at the sky, her eyes shining not with fear, but with peace.

“Thank you, devil,” she whispered, her voice filled with honest gratitude. “For everything you gave me.”

And she closed her eyes.

In the real world, the moment arrived. Her breathing grew shallow. The rhythm on the monitor slowed. She could feel the faint scent of antiseptic, the sharp bitterness of medicine on her tongue. The hum of machines, distant and fading. The dry air on her lips, and she heard faint voices calling her name.

She knew this was the end.

But she didn’t resist it.

She accepted it.

Outside, her family stood in tears. Rajeev, her son Ved, and even extended family—gathered in grief, full of unspoken apologies. The doctors stepped back as the machine fell silent.

They cried.

They whispered regrets.

They held her hands and spoke softly, as if she could still hear them.

“I’m sorry, Amma…”

“We never realised…”

“You did everything for us…”

Her funeral was not one of silence, but of love awakened too late. Wails echoed, flowers filled her final resting place, and the air was heavy with a grief soaked in guilt. Flowers covered her, not just as a ritual, but as a final offering to a life that had once gone unnoticed.

And above all, the stars blinked softly.

As if remembering her final smile...

Was Niyati right or wrong?

Were her wishes, granted by the devil, a blessing or a quiet curse?

Did the angel truly fail her, or did he grant her the softest miracle as her peace?

Some stories refuse to offer clear answers.

Like shadows at dusk, they stretch in all directions. They are not meant to be judged, only remembered.

And so it was with her.

In the end, she did not rise to heaven. Nor did she descend to hell.

She simply… faded.

Like a well-written story that knows precisely when to close its final page.

Far from the living, in a space untouched by time, beneath a sky that belonged to neither dawn nor dusk, the devil sat.

Not on a throne.

Not in flame.

But on a broken bench beneath a leafless tree, staring into the endless grey.

And in that silence, her voice returned.

"Thank you, devil."

It echoed in his ears like a favourite lullaby — soft, haunting, and unforgettable.

He closed his eyes.

Of all the souls that had whispered to him — in desperation, in greed, in madness — she had been different.

Not because she was pure. She wasn’t...

Not because she was noble. Her wishes weren’t holy...

But because she didn’t ask for shortcuts.

She asked for a story.

She wanted not to conquer, not to rise above the world. She only wanted to be seen. To be heard.

He remembered the moment she had summoned him, not through a ritual, but through a whisper. A sigh.

"Hey devil, please come and help me…"

It wasn’t a prayer.

No god had claimed it.

But he did.

Because someone had to.

And he kept his promise.

He didn’t rewrite the world. He didn’t bend fate or take lives. He merely gave her the version of life she had longed to live. One of dignity. Of recognition. Of calm revenge wrapped in poetic justice.

The angel, on the other hand, remembered how he had tried to reason with the devil.

"She might have turned to us one day..."

But he knew better. People don't seek angels when silence becomes their only companion.

They don’t fold their hands in prayer when even gods feel too far to hear.

That’s when they call him.

Not as worshippers.

But as orphans of hope.

He had watched Niyati die twice.

Once, when she trusted the devil, and collapsed in her kitchen.

And again, years later, when her dream self looked up at the stars, smiled, and let go, with a heart full of peace. And the angel had smiled too...

Because he realised not all who summon devils are evil.

And not all who pray to gods are saints.

In the end, Niyati’s story was neither a warning nor a celebration. It was simply a reminder that even the quietest voices echo when someone is willing to listen.

And in a world where gods wait for prayers,

perhaps… sometimes…

Even devils grant peace.

Thus closed the tale of Niyati, woven not with miracles, but with memory. A web of wishes, spun by sorrow, sealed by silence.

And left drifting,

between darkness and light...