The garden had quieted. Only the sound of tea being poured broke the silence between Aagartha and Atharva. The one cherry blossom petal that had fallen now lay gently by her elbow on the weathered wooden bench.
Aagartha stirred the tea slowly, but her mind was somewhere else—caught in a loop of half-felt memories and aching echoes. She didn't know this place… yet it remembered her.
The rain had long stopped, but the streets still glistened under the gentle glow of streetlamps. A faint scent of wet earth clung to the breeze, weaving around the quiet alley that ran beside the iconic café — Coffee & Cocaine.
The clock on the street struck 7 PM, and the moon rose higher, bathing the world in a silver hue that softened the chaos of city life.
Not far from the café's ornate gate — framed with red climbing roses and trailing bougainvillea — stood a man cloaked in shadows and silence.
Tall. Impeccably dressed in a jet-black tailored suit layered beneath a long overcoat that moved with the wind like a king's cape. His brown eyes, sharp yet bruised with memories, were locked on the glowing café interior, where a woman sat beneath a cherry blossom tree — laughing gently, unaware of the storm watching her.
He stood like stone, yet everything inside him trembled.
Dakshinayan Shrivastava.
A name that made world markets pause. The CEO of OneSky International Bank, a man hailed in headlines as the "Wall Street Warlord from the East."
But this man was not the one who smiled for financial magazines or posed beside golden plaques.
This man was someone else.
Someone quieter. Someone older than his years.
Someone still aching.
Beside him stood his assistant, Sahil Singh, holding a deep black umbrella above his head. Even Sahil — the man who had seen Nayan silence boardrooms and bury empires — hadn't seen him this still. This... transfixed.
"Sir?" Sahil finally asked, voice low. "Should we go in? Speak to her?"
Nayan didn't respond.
His eyes were still locked on the woman inside.
Aagartha Kashyap.
No—
Indu.
The name only he dared whisper.
In the garden, she sat with Atharva, gently smiling beneath the still-blooming cherry blossom tree. Moonlight danced off the raindrops clinging to wisteria vines, which slowly dripped onto her hair and cheeks. Her skin shimmered like poetry. Her eyes glowed like warmth he'd lost somewhere in time.
Nayan's chest tightened.
"She's laughing…" he whispered.
Sahil leaned in. "Sir?"
"She's laughing like she used to… back when we were just… happier than ever," Nayan said softly, like recalling a dream.
"Before this life took everything it wanted from us."
There was a pause. His voice dropped, rougher now, restrained.
"If I walk in now, Sahil… maybe that laughter disappears. Maybe she looks at me and… it all breaks."
He exhaled deeply, as if holding the world back with one breath.
"You don't touch something that's finally healing."
Sahil stayed quiet.
Nayan's image in the business world was nothing short of myth. A man who once negotiated a multi-billion-dollar loan in four languages, who sat calmly across international mafias and Fortune 500 elites alike — and who, behind the glass doors of power, had quietly removed entire lineages of those who betrayed him.
He was feared, respected, even worshipped.
But tonight? He was just a man.
A man too afraid to ruin a single smile.
"She doesn't know me, Sahil," Nayan muttered, eyes still glued to her. "And maybe… that's a blessing."
"But sir, if she's this important—" Sahil began.
"She is," Nayan interrupted, quietly.
"Then why wait?"
He smiled faintly, eyes glazed. "Because I'm the sun now… and she's finally living under the moon. What if my light burns her?"
Sahil had no answer.
Just then, his phone buzzed sharply. He turned, listened, and nodded. "Sir. Urgent call from the Milan syndicate. The Italy group's arrived. They're calling it fraud. And they're threatening to expose everyone."
Nayan blinked. The spell shattered. The real world — ruthless and impatient — pulled him back.
He straightened his back. The softness vanished from his features. In seconds, he was the man they all feared again.
"Send the file to my car. Tell them I'll be there in forty minutes."
"Yes, sir."
As Sahil turned to leave, Nayan spoke again — this time slower.
"Place someone here. Discreet. I want updates on her every move."
Sahil stopped. "The woman? Or the café?"
Nayan smiled coldly. "Both. The café holds secrets. But she… she holds time."
"And if someone tries to hurt her?" Sahil asked, already knowing.
Nayan's voice dropped to ice.
"Make sure they're erased. Entirely."
He turned to go, but not before stealing one last glance through the café's antique windows.
There she was. Still laughing.
Still untouched.
Still his — even if the world never knew.
"She's not mine yet," he whispered under his breath, stepping into the backseat of his waiting car, "but this time, I won't lose her."
The car door closed. The engine hummed.
And as the black vehicle vanished into the night mist, cherry blossom petals swirled once more through the alleyway… carrying with them the weight of a love that refused to die.
---
The soft clinking of teacups and the faint hum of the vintage record player filled the cozy silence between Aagartha and Atharva as they sat in the café garden, under the blossom-laced awning. Rain had stopped, but the damp earth and faint scent of petrichor clung to the vines around them.
The cherry blossom tree swayed slightly above them — and so did the tension Aagartha carried inside.
She held the cup gently, letting its warmth seep into her palms.
"I still don't know why she gave me this key," she murmured, eyes distant. "Or why her death shook me so badly… like something in me broke along with her last breath."
Atharva watched her for a moment. "Maybe you were meant to find her."
Aagartha smiled faintly. "I don't know about fate. But… she made me feel like I belonged somewhere."
There was a pause.
She looked up. "Where are you from, Atharva?"
He took a sip of his coffee and leaned back. "Originally from Udaipur. But this café... this was my sister's dream. She built it. Every inch. Every petal you see here bloomed under her hands."
Aagartha's expression softened.
Just then, the barista returned with two fresh cups. "Here's your order, ma'am. Strong Americano, extra hot."
Aagartha smiled and nodded her thanks, but then looked at her cup — and back at Atharva with hesitation.
"Umm… I hope you don't mind," she asked gently, "but may I ask what your sister's name was?"
Atharva paused. His eyes darkened with the weight of memory. "Her name was..."
He placed his cup down.
"Subhangi Shastri."
The world stopped.
Aagartha didn't blink. Her hands trembled. The name echoed inside her chest like a forgotten song suddenly remembered.
"Subhangi…" she whispered.
Something inside her cracked open. Like thunder rumbling silently in a clear sky.
She had never met Subhangi. Yet that name…
That name felt older than her own bones.
That name held rain, fire, sky, heartbreak… and memory.
She closed her eyes for a moment and saw flashes —
A woman in a red silk saree. A piano. A silver ring falling into water.
Cherry blossoms on fire.
A gasp escaped her lips.
The garden of "Coffee & Cocaine" basked in a rare, hushed peace. Evening had set in quietly. Moonlight now filtered through the latticed veins of the wisteria vines, casting long silver streaks onto the garden's cobblestones. Rain had stopped just moments ago, leaving beads of water hanging from the petals, shimmering like pearls in the moonlight.
Aagartha sat beneath the almost-barren cherry blossom tree, beside Atharva. The two were deep in quiet conversation. His voice was calm but filled with old emotion as he shared pieces of the past. She listened—sometimes nodding, sometimes falling into a stunned silence.
He had just told her the name of his sister—Subhangi Shastri.
The moment he said it, something about Aagartha stilled.
The name didn't ring a bell in memory—not exactly. But it wrapped itself around her like the scent of something once familiar. Like a melody long forgotten, or a place once dreamt of. She blinked, lips parting slightly, her fingers tightening around the now-cold coffee mug.
Just then—
the barista burst into the garden, breathless and pale.
"Sir! There's a fight happening outside the café — some students — and one of them is injured! Badly injured!"
Everyone inside turned in alarm. Books were left open. Chairs pushed back.
"But that's not it," the barista added, panicked. "The guy who's been stabbed… he's not just anyone. He's from… OneSky International Bank."
Atharva stood up so fast his chair toppled over.
"WHAT?"
Aagartha's breath caught.
The name. OneSky.
That's… that's HIS bank.
Without another word, they all rushed toward the front — Atharva, Aagartha, the barista, and some staff from the library who had heard the commotion.
The scene outside was chaos. Rainwater still puddled the pavement, now stained with blood. A few young boys were shouting, panicked. In the middle of it all, a man in a black shirt lay motionless, his chest bleeding, his phone still buzzing on the ground.