The long, shaded veranda hummed with warmth and quiet familiarity as the two old families settled into silken cushions and carved wood chairs. Arav and Raza stood respectfully as Sultan Mirza and his wife entered, and the air filled with a harmony that only years of shared histories could create.
Rani Devi Rathore stood first to greet them, her smile glowing as she gestured warmly. "It has been too long, Ruksana. You look just the same as you did ten years ago."
Mrs. Mirza laughed softly, placing her hand gently on Rani Devi's. "And you, always the graceful queen. I sometimes wonder if time dares not touch you."
The men exchanged their own respectful gestures. Maharaja Rathore embraced Sultan Mirza, a bond formed in battlefields and courtrooms now mellowed into familial affection.
Arav stepped back politely as the elders sat down, but Mrs. Mirza's eyes found him. "And there is the young man himself. I had hoped Noor would join us today, but she... refused to come."
There was a pause.
Rani Devi glanced toward Arav, and her husband sighed with a nostalgic smile. "Noor and Arav were such close friends once. They were barely out of their toddler years when they declared war against the palace guards together."
Mrs. Mirza chuckled. "Yes! I still remember the time Arav hid in the library to avoid his language tutor and Noor covered for him like a little storm herself."
Arav smiled politely, but there was a distant glaze in his eyes. He didn't remember much of Noor's face from childhood—just flashes of a stubborn voice, and tiny fingers gripping his wrist as they ran across marbled hallways. He didn't mention the girl from the bazaar. That was a different chaos altogether.
"She hasn't been herself lately," Mrs. Mirza said after a beat, voice softening. "She prefers to remain within the house, buried in her books or the garden."
"That's why," Rani Devi leaned forward, "we were considering sending Arav to Firozabad. He's finally back, and we thought perhaps seeing a childhood friend would lift her spirits."
Raza, standing to the side, inclined his head briefly. As always, his presence was composed—a storm wrapped in ice. He said nothing, though his sharp eyes noted every word.
"Your daughter has always been brilliant, Ruksana," Maharaja Rathore said fondly. "We remember her clever tongue and calm eyes. Even as a girl, she had a wisdom beyond her years."
"She's still the same," Mrs. Mirza nodded. "Only, she guards her thoughts even more tightly now."
Arav spoke then, softly. "Why didn't she want to come?"
Mrs. Mirza offered him a careful smile. "On the very first day she seemed to be ill,though I don't believe that for a second.One cannot say what's in the young trouble's mind"
"She would have been happy to see Raza," Sultan Mirza added gently.
At this, Raza looked up, a faint quirk in his brow. "People rarely are."
The room laughed, warmth returning, but behind every smile, a note of absence still played.
And Arav, seated there with a history he could barely remember and a face he hadn't connected yet
"She hadn't wished to?" Rani Devi was still in surprise, her eyes glancing toward Arav, who leaned back , arms crossed.
"Strange," Maharaja said thoughtfully, "I recall the two of them were inseparable as children."
Arav shifted slightly. His face stayed composed, but he looked away, pretending to listen to the slow ticking of the grandfather clock.
"She doesn't remember much either," Mrs. Mirza said, a little too quickly, "It's been nearly fifteen years."
"Still," Rani Devi interjected, "We were thinking of sending Arav to Firozabad. It's only proper that family friends stay in touch—Noor may be quiet, but she's a good-hearted girl. If she had come, she'd have met Raza too."
At the mention of his name, Raza, seated beside Arav, gave only the faintest nod.
"She would've been intrigued," Maharaja added, "Raza's the soldier-type she used to admire in her stories—stern, unreadable, always carrying the weight of something."
Raza gave a brief exhale through his nose. "She sounds like she reads too much."
"She does," Mrs. Mirza said fondly. "Too much for her own good, perhaps."
Rani Devi smiled. "And she was always the quiet one, no?"
"Quiet, yes," Sultan agreed, "but sharp. Always observing, sketching what others missed."
"You say she chose not to come?" Rani Devi pressed, almost surprised still.
"Yes," Mrs. Mirza admitted honestly. "She's... different. Even Yasmeen couldn't convince her. She left for her maternal home yesterday."
Rani Devi sighed. "She was fond of Yasmeen too."
Across the room, Arav finally spoke. "Maybe she doesn't remember Sitapur."
"She remembers," Sultan said softly, "But memory is a strange companion—it stays silent until you meet its eyes."
Silence returned for a beat, only broken by Raza standing up, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve.
"Well then," Maharaja Rathore said cheerily, perhaps to lighten the air, "We shall send Arav to Firozabad—tell her he's coming to collect overdue stories."
Mrs. Mirza laughed. "She'll lock herself in the library."
"And Arav will wait at the door," Rani Devi teased. "He was good at waiting."
Raza gave Arav a side-glance, one brow slightly raised. Arav didn't respond with words, but the corner of his mouth curved just slightly.
The evening drifted into warmer tones—recalling shared weddings, festivals under monsoon skies, Yasmeen's mischief, Sultan's chess matches with the Maharaja, and the time little Noor had buried Arav's sword in the rose garden, only to forget where.
Arav listened quietly. He wasn't thinking about the girl from the past. He was thinking about the one in the bazaar, the laughter, the stubborn pride, the unfinished sarcasm.
He didn't know they were the same girl.
Not yet.