The town rose before her like a forest of strangers — buildings instead of trees, honking horns instead of birdsong. Everything felt too loud, too fast, too unforgiving.
But Hiya kept walking, a prayer folded beneath her breath.
She had never traveled alone. Her slippers scuffed the pavement. Heat radiated from the concrete like punishment. The map in her mind blurred with each wrong turn. Some pointed her in vague directions. Others didn't even pause to look.
Still, she smiled — even as her lips cracked, her arms throbbed, and her legs grew heavy with unfamiliar dust.
She wasn't the kind of girl to turn heads. There was no shimmer on her cheeks, no shimmer in her clothes. And yet, something about her made people pause — as if they were remembering something gentler.
Her skin held the quiet glow of sandalwood. Her cheeks flushed with the kind of pink that didn't need blush. Her lips were soft and guava-pink, unpainted. A tight braid swung behind her, and her dupatta was knotted firmly across her chest, as if she were holding herself together.
But her eyes — large, unguarded — made the world look innocent, even when it wasn't.
Finally, she found it.
A tall black gate. Wrought iron, twisted with ivy-shaped vines. The nameplate read:
Shyam & Family
Her feet stuttered. Her breath came in ragged pulses. She pressed her palm over the sealed envelope.
This was the address her uncle had whispered with pride. The home of an old friend. A man who had once promised to look after her, should fate ever turn cruel.
She approached the guard, heart clanging in her chest.
"I… I'm Hiya," she said softly. "From Parole. My uncle gave me this letter. It's for Mr. Shyam."
The guard blinked. Looked at her, then the envelope.
And that's when her knees gave out.
The world tilted.
The letter slipped from her trembling hands.
She collapsed.
—
Across the lane, Dev was jogging.
His mornings were a ritual — headphones in, sneakers pounding pavement, thoughts clean and orderly: anatomy flashcards, cardio rhythm, protein intake. His life was disciplined. Precise. Unshaken.
But something tugged at him today. A breathless stillness. A shift in the breeze.
He looked up just in time to see a girl crumple in front of his house.
Her body folded in slow motion — a green salwar, dust on her sandals, eyes fluttering closed like falling petals.
Before thinking, he ran.
She fell into his arms.
Warm. Soft. Faintly trembling. Her breath brushed his collarbone, hot and shallow.
Dev glanced at the envelope on the ground. The name "Shyam" smudged slightly by her thumbprint.
To the guard, he said only two words — clear, calm, commanding:
"Open the gate."
—
The mansion was large — but not cold.
Sunlight filtered through lace curtains. The scent of sandalwood incense lingered in the hallway. Murals curled up golden walls. Voices murmured softly from the kitchen.
Hiya lay unconscious on a cream sofa, her braid splayed like ink across the cushion.
Dev's mother came first — with water, glucose, and panic on her face.
His sister, Diya, followed — carrying spare clothes and comfort in her touch.
His older brother stood silently by the door, arms crossed, unreadable.
But Dev knelt beside her, unmoving. Watching.
Her face was flushed from sunstroke. Her dupatta was damp, still knotted tightly at her chest. A stranger. Yet not unfamiliar.
Too young to be this exhausted.
Too soft to be carrying something this heavy.
He watched her lips — parted slightly — and felt a flicker of something unfamiliar.
Not attraction.
Not pity.
Something quieter.
Something he couldn't name.
Not yet.