31-08-2025, 02:41 PM
Part 6 – The Return
The silence stretched, heavy, unyielding. No one moved. No one even dared breathe. The host’s hand twitched at his side, the veteran actor’s eyes still locked on the vacant space where Rhea had been.
And then…
Darkness.
The stage lights cut out again. This time the entire auditorium gasped as one, the sound rising like a single voice of fear. Phones slipped from hands, chairs scbangd against marble, someone shrieked. The stage dissolved into nothingness once more—an endless void in the middle of all that expectation.
A second.
Two.
Three.
When the lights roared back to life, the crowd erupted into chaos.
She was back.
Rhea Malhotra stood at the Grand Podium once more.
As if she had never left.
But something was different. In her hands, catching every hungry flash of light, was the golden statuette. She held it effortlessly, the gleam of its polished surface almost surreal against her emerald gown.
For a moment, the audience could not comprehend what they were seeing. A few gasped audibly. A woman in the front row pressed her hand to her mouth.
Flashes fired in a frenzy, photographers clawing for angles. Applause erupted, not polite, not restrained, but wild, desperate, the roar of people needing to believe in something impossible.
It felt like magic.
Rhea smiled, that signature smile that no magazine had ever managed to capture fully, half mystery, half fire. She stepped forward, raising the statuette with both hands as though it had simply materialized there, gifted to her from some unseen hand.
Her voice, when it came, was steady, resonant, and commanding:
“They say cinema is about illusion. That it makes us see what isn’t there… and forget what is. But tonight—tonight we are not watching an illusion. We are witnessing a truth. A truth written in light, in time, in legacy.”
She let her words linger, her gaze sweeping the audience. The silence that followed was absolute—no cough, no whisper, no movement.
“Legends never fade,” she continued, her voice deepening, almost reverent.
“They shine across decades, across lives, across every soul that dared to dream. And tonight, we honor one such legend. A man whose brilliance shaped the way we see stories, and the way we see ourselves.”
The audience broke into thunderous applause, standing now, swept up in her rhythm, her presence. The cameras clicked in furious succession, desperate to capture the magic of the moment.
She turned gracefully, extending the award to the veteran actor. For a heartbeat, he hesitated, as though afraid that if he touched it, it too might vanish. Then, with visible trembling, he accepted it.
Their palms brushed. She smiled once more, dazzling, immortal.
“Sir,” she said softly but clearly, “this belongs to you.”
The applause swelled into something euphoric, a frenzy of wonder. People cheered, cried, clapped until their hands stung. For one luminous instant, the impossible felt not only possible, but real.
And then...
The lights cut out again.
The crowd was silent, not sure what comes next. A wave of silence spread across the crowd. The hall was completely silent, raw and chilling, the magic now curdling into dread.
In the dark, a voice rang out, shaking, panicked, unmistakably human.
“I didn’t do that! I swear... I didn’t touch the board!”
It was one of the stage technicians, his voice carrying from the wings.
“The lights… they turned off on their own!”
The words fell into the silence like ice water.
The silence stretched, heavy, unyielding. No one moved. No one even dared breathe. The host’s hand twitched at his side, the veteran actor’s eyes still locked on the vacant space where Rhea had been.
And then…
Darkness.
The stage lights cut out again. This time the entire auditorium gasped as one, the sound rising like a single voice of fear. Phones slipped from hands, chairs scbangd against marble, someone shrieked. The stage dissolved into nothingness once more—an endless void in the middle of all that expectation.
A second.
Two.
Three.
When the lights roared back to life, the crowd erupted into chaos.
She was back.
Rhea Malhotra stood at the Grand Podium once more.
As if she had never left.
But something was different. In her hands, catching every hungry flash of light, was the golden statuette. She held it effortlessly, the gleam of its polished surface almost surreal against her emerald gown.
For a moment, the audience could not comprehend what they were seeing. A few gasped audibly. A woman in the front row pressed her hand to her mouth.
Flashes fired in a frenzy, photographers clawing for angles. Applause erupted, not polite, not restrained, but wild, desperate, the roar of people needing to believe in something impossible.
It felt like magic.
Rhea smiled, that signature smile that no magazine had ever managed to capture fully, half mystery, half fire. She stepped forward, raising the statuette with both hands as though it had simply materialized there, gifted to her from some unseen hand.
Her voice, when it came, was steady, resonant, and commanding:
“They say cinema is about illusion. That it makes us see what isn’t there… and forget what is. But tonight—tonight we are not watching an illusion. We are witnessing a truth. A truth written in light, in time, in legacy.”
She let her words linger, her gaze sweeping the audience. The silence that followed was absolute—no cough, no whisper, no movement.
“Legends never fade,” she continued, her voice deepening, almost reverent.
“They shine across decades, across lives, across every soul that dared to dream. And tonight, we honor one such legend. A man whose brilliance shaped the way we see stories, and the way we see ourselves.”
The audience broke into thunderous applause, standing now, swept up in her rhythm, her presence. The cameras clicked in furious succession, desperate to capture the magic of the moment.
She turned gracefully, extending the award to the veteran actor. For a heartbeat, he hesitated, as though afraid that if he touched it, it too might vanish. Then, with visible trembling, he accepted it.
Their palms brushed. She smiled once more, dazzling, immortal.
“Sir,” she said softly but clearly, “this belongs to you.”
The applause swelled into something euphoric, a frenzy of wonder. People cheered, cried, clapped until their hands stung. For one luminous instant, the impossible felt not only possible, but real.
And then...
The lights cut out again.
The crowd was silent, not sure what comes next. A wave of silence spread across the crowd. The hall was completely silent, raw and chilling, the magic now curdling into dread.
In the dark, a voice rang out, shaking, panicked, unmistakably human.
“I didn’t do that! I swear... I didn’t touch the board!”
It was one of the stage technicians, his voice carrying from the wings.
“The lights… they turned off on their own!”
The words fell into the silence like ice water.
-- oOo --
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