Rudra woke while the night still clung to the world, in that fragile hour when even bells hesitate, unsure whether it is time to speak.
The room was still submerged in the half-life between night and morning, when even shadows seemed reluctant to move. Mist pressed against the tall windowpanes, blurring the courtyard beyond into a pale abstraction. Oxford breathed softly at this hour, as though the city itself slept with one eye open.
Rudra rose without sound.
He crossed to the small table beside the lamp and opened the drawer he had locked the night before. Inside lay the unopened letters, their envelopes uncreased, their seals intact. They carried weight without mass. He gathered them slowly and slipped them into the inner pocket of his long coat, careful, deliberate, as though each one might react to haste.
He glanced once toward the other bed.
Vipin lay cocooned within his blanket, breathing evenly, one arm flung outward in careless trust. Sleep had claimed him completely, without bargain or resistance. Rudra watched him for a moment longer than necessary, then turned away.
From the chair he lifted his brown leather briefcase, its surface worn at the edges, its clasp polished by habit. He reached into his waistcoat and drew out the silver-chained pocket watch. The lid clicked open with familiar obedience.
Four o'clock.
Rudra closed it, slid it back into place, and left the room.
Outside, the morning had not yet decided what it would become.
Mist filled the compounds and quadrangles, pooling along stone pathways, climbing low walls, softening the sharp intelligence of architecture into something dreamlike. The colleges emerged only in fragments. A spire here, an arch there. Windows floated without walls. Doors opened into whiteness.
He walked slowly, his footsteps absorbed by damp stone. The air was cold, but clean, carrying the faint scent of earth and old leaves. Somewhere, a bird tested its voice and fell silent again, as though uncertain it was permitted to speak.
Oxford in the early morning did not resemble a place of learning. It felt instead like a reliquary, holding centuries of thought in suspension, waiting for daylight to reanimate it.
Rudra passed through a narrow lane and entered the churchyard.
St Giles' lay nearby, its grounds enclosed by iron railings darkened with age. The gate yielded without protest. Inside, the world changed texture. The mist gathered closer to the ground here, threading itself between headstones, settling around crosses and angels whose faces had been softened by rain and years of neglect.
The garden beside the church was modest but carefully tended. White lilies bloomed there, fresh and unblemished, their petals pale as unspoken prayers. Rudra bent and cut a small cluster, their stems snapping softly, cleanly.
He passed through the graves as one passes through memories not their own, careful not to disturb what lay listening beneath the earth.
There was a beauty to the place that did not ask to be admired. Moss clung to stone with quiet devotion. Names rose from marble and sank back into obscurity. Some graves leaned, tired of standing straight. Others appeared newly born, their earth still unsettled, their flowers too vivid to belong.
He stopped before one of them.
It was a large white grave, a simple cross rising from its head. Pink flowers lay scattered across it, their petals bruised, their color already beginning to fade. They had been placed there recently, perhaps yesterday, perhaps this morning. The soil beneath them was darker than the rest, freshly turned.
Benjamin Peterson.
January 1910 – November 1956.
Priest.
Rudra set down his briefcase beside the stone.
For a moment, he did not move.
He closed his eyes.
There was a tightening inside him, a familiar pressure that gathered behind the ribs and climbed upward, settling just below the throat. It was the sensation of standing too close to something that might open. A memory of past winters pressed against his thoughts. Of rooms where silence had turned malignant. Of nights that had asked him to witness what no man should be required to remember.
Mr. Roy felt it then, the old anticipation of dread, the knowledge that something unseen might choose this moment to assert itself. His breathing slowed, measured, disciplined. Pain lived inside that discipline, quiet and uncomplaining.
He opened his eyes suddenly.
Nothing.
Only mist thinning under the first suggestion of sun. Only light beginning its careful work, dissolving shadows without violence. The grave remained a grave. The cross stood indifferent. The petals did not stir.
Rudra knelt and placed the lilies gently upon the stone. Their white stood stark against the pink, against the dark soil, against the name etched into permanence. He adjusted them once, then again, with unnecessary precision, as though arrangement might substitute for absolution.
He rose, lifted his briefcase, and turned toward the gate.
That was when he saw it.
A figure stood there, near the iron bars.
Black-clad. Still.
For a fraction of a second, Rudra's body forgot how to proceed. His foot hovered above the ground, unable to commit to the next step. He knew the presence even before thought caught up to recognition. It was not unfamiliar. It was patient.
He straightened, his jaw tightening. He told himself it was mist. A trick of light. A human shape borrowed briefly by shadow.
The presence did not accept dismissal.
The figure shifted, just enough to be undeniable. The outline sharpened. Cloth moved where there was no wind. A head inclined, slightly, not in greeting but acknowledgment.
Rudra's thoughts scattered, then attempted order. He felt the cold reach deeper now, sliding beneath skin, into memory. His chest constricted. The churchyard seemed to close inward, the iron gates receding, the graves leaning closer as though listening.
The figure turned.
In that instant, something cold and immediate seized Rudra's breath. The world seemed to narrow, as though the churchyard itself were leaning inward. He closed his eyes—not to escape what stood before him, but to deny it permission to exist.
The darkness pressed against his eyelids. Images threatened to surface. Faces without names. Voices without mouths. He held himself still until the pressure eased.
When he opened his eyes again, the gate was empty.
Only mist, retreating. Only light, growing bolder.
He did not look back.
•~•
The hum of an engine replaced the hush of stone. Rudra opened his eyes to find himself seated in the back of a car, the rhythm of movement steady beneath him. Sleep clung to his limbs in fragments, the kind that follows exhaustion rather than rest.
The car was a classic imported model, its interior lined with polished wood and leather that carried a faint, comforting scent. Outside the window, Himachal Pradesh unfolded.
Mountains rose in layered blues and greens, their slopes dusted with early sunlight. Pines stood tall and solemn, their needles catching light like scattered prayer beads. Valleys opened and closed with gentle indifference. Cold air streamed in through a partially opened window, sharp and familiar.
Two years.
He had been away two years.
Memory returned without invitation. Cold mornings. His mother's shawl pulled tight around her shoulders. Her hand warm in his, guiding him along narrow paths while the world still slept. Her voice low, telling him stories that did not end where they should, stories that trusted him to carry the unfinished parts.
The car slowed. The iron gates appeared ahead, tall and imposing, framed by stone pillars darkened by age. Rudra's breath caught.
The last time he had crossed those gates, it had been night. Words had been spoken then, precise and unforgiving. He remembered standing straight while being reduced to something smaller. A collection of shattered dreams. An inheritance of disappointment.
A warmth touched his cheek.
He realized it was a tear only after it had fallen, absurdly warm against winter air. He did not wipe it away.
The driver stepped out and opened the gate. Metal groaned softly. The car moved forward.
Rudra stepped out slowly.
Near the garden stood his father, motionless, as though he had been placed there long before Rudra arrived. The white of his attire caught the morning light with an austere purity, the shawl resting upon him like an old command rather than a garment. There was a gravity in the way he held himself, a stillness that did not wait but expected, as if even the earth beneath his feet had learned obedience.
Servants moved quietly, lifting luggage, retreating without meeting eyes.
Rudra remained still.
The distance between them was not large. It felt vast.
Then, with a measured breath, Rudra took the long-awaited steps forward, toward the man whose silence had shaped him, and whose shadow he had never quite escaped.