Hiya lay unconscious in the guest room — her dupatta clinging to her like a story she hadn't yet told, like the last whisper of a journey not quite over.
The bed beneath her was softer than anything she'd ever touched. Her breath slowed. Her lashes fluttered. But still, her fingers curled as if afraid to let go.
Dev stood beside her, arms crossed.
He wasn't the kind to linger. Feelings were not his language. Logic was. Schedules. Systems. Science.
But this girl, with her flushed cheeks and weary hands, unsettled his calm.
Even in sleep, her brows were drawn — not in pain, but in longing. It was as if her body didn't know how to relax, not even when safe.
He glanced at the letter still crumpled on the side table — the one she had refused to let go of.
Arindam.
The name was faintly familiar. Something from childhood stories. Someone his father used to speak of.
Dev didn't open the envelope. It didn't feel like his place.
Instead, he took it downstairs.
His father, Shyam, was in his study — a room of quiet authority and sandalwood-scented calm. Sunlight spilled over weathered books and tea rings on old wood. The kind of place where time slowed down.
Dev handed him the envelope without a word.
Shyam adjusted his glasses, unfolded the paper, and read slowly — each line carving new silence into the room.
Then he stopped.
Folded the letter again.
And stared out the window, past the hibiscus tree swaying in the breeze.
"I had almost forgotten," he murmured. "Arindam…"
There was no grief in his voice. No guilt. Just something softer.
Gratitude. Reverence. Memory.
He looked up at Dev.
"That girl… upstairs. She's Arindam's daughter. She's to stay with us now. From today, this is her home."
Dev nodded. Not out of obedience — but understanding.
"She's joining your college, isn't she?"
"Yes," Dev said. "Scholarship batch. I saw her name last week."
Shyam leaned forward slightly. His voice dropped into something that resembled a vow.
"Listen to me carefully. She has no one else. Arindam trusted me with her… and now I'm trusting you. Not because I'm your father, but because this is a house that protects anyone who walks through its gate in need."
Dev didn't reply.
But something inside him shifted.
A silent promise passed between them — one not spoken, only absorbed.
Shyam rose, his voice firm now. "Call your mother. Tell her to ready a room. This girl isn't a guest."
"She's a daughter. Born of memory."
Soon, the house moved like clockwork softened by emotion.
Riddhi, warm and intuitive, laid out fresh clothes and tucked jasmine behind the soap dish.
Shaurya, always quiet but exacting, ordered a light meal — curd rice and lime water.
Even the maids, usually chatty and swift, moved silently today — as if a sacred thread had entered the household, fragile and glowing.
Upstairs, beneath a lace-draped canopy, Hiya stirred.
Her body ached. Her head throbbed with leftover heat. But the sheets were clean. The pillow smelled faintly of lavender and rain.
She blinked slowly.
Was this a dream?
No — there were voices outside her door.
"…She needs rest," came a calm, male voice.
"Let her breathe before asking questions."
Dev.
His tone wasn't tender — but it was… careful. Protective in its own quiet way. A voice that didn't offer affection but built shelter around her, one syllable at a time.
Hiya didn't know who he was. Not yet.
But his voice made her feel something she hadn't felt in years.
Safe.
She closed her eyes again. Not from exhaustion.
But relief.
Outside, the rain had stopped.
Inside, a promise long buried had begun to breathe again.