Aarohi didn't want to sleep.
Not after the mirror room. Not after the reflection that wasn't hers.
So she went to the temple.
Midnight. No crowd. Just her, the stone idols…
and a bansuri note.
Not haunting.
Soothing.
Like someone telling her:
"You're not alone here."
She sat beside the Tulsi grove, notebook in lap.
Her wrist still bore the Sanskrit mark:
"जैसे पहले था"
She whispered, "What was I before?"
The wind answered by lifting a piece of cloth stuck in the tree.
Tied to it — a small diary, bound with red thread.
Inside, the pages were old but untouched.
The first line read:
"Vrinda. Age 17. I write this for whoever I once was, and may become again."
Aarohi blinked.
"She knew… someone would come back."
The diary wasn't just memories — it was full of bhajans, shlokas, notes on bansuri melodies, and verses on Raas Leela.
But in between…
Strange entries.
Day 42:
I saw him again. He came to Nidhivan with paper, not prayer. He doesn't believe in Him.
But Krishna will not punish him.
Because I do. For both of us.
Day 55:
He asked why no one hears the flute but me.
I said, "Because I listen with faith, not fear."
He smiled. And for one second… he believed.
Aarohi flipped to the last written page:
Day 108:
He will forget me. But I will wait for him.
Just like Radha.
Until the hour returns. Until we both remember.
~Vrinda
Aarohi closed the diary.
She looked up at the murti of Kanha ji — flute in hand, eyes soft, playful.
"Was it you?" she whispered. "Are you the one leaving clues? Or protecting us?"
A leaf fell.
A feather dropped with it.
Not on her wrist.
On her heart.