Vikram stood still at the balcony, his hands resting loosely on the cold railing. The night air was thick, carrying with it the faint scent of rain and the hum of distant crickets. He wasn't really looking at the view anymore; his mind was replaying the last few minutes like a stubborn reel of film.
She had already retreated into her room. Not a word, not a look back. She had slipped away so quietly that for a moment, he wondered if she had even been there at all. That thought gnawed at him, leaving a strange mix of frustration and curiosity in its wake.
He turned his gaze back toward the spot she had stood earlier, just at the edge of the balcony, her slender frame almost blending into the pale moonlight. When he had approached her, she had startled—not dramatically, but enough for him to notice. Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second when he asked whether she liked the view.
She had nodded. That was all.
It could have been mere surprise at his sudden presence. But Vikram had been reading people long enough to know when there was more beneath the surface. And in her eyes… he had caught something else—something sharp and fleeting. Fear.
It wasn't overt; it was the kind of fear that hid behind calm expressions, the kind that came from habit, not from a sudden threat. That subtle tightening of her shawl around her shoulders as he turned to look at the hills, the almost imperceptible way she shifted away, as though putting invisible space between them—he had caught all of it from the corner of his eye.
She had not said anything to offend him. She had not recoiled openly. But her silence was a barrier. And when he turned back to speak to her again, she was already gone, the soft creak of her door closing marking the end of the moment.
His brows had drawn together.
What did she think of him? Did he look like some brute who would lay a hand on a young girl?
The question simmered in him, uncomfortably.
But no matter how much he tried to push the thought away, she kept returning to his mind. The image of her—pale, silent, distant—wouldn't leave.
She was the kind of girl who could have been full of life. Sixteen. At that age, most girls dreamed in colors—of books, friends, perhaps a boy they liked. There should have been laughter in her eyes, a hint of mischief in her voice, a blush at an unexpected compliment.
But she was none of that.
Her face, beautiful in an almost unsettling way, carried no expression, as if carved from marble. Her clothes—always long, always white—covered her from shoulder to ankle, the hem brushing her feet so nothing of her skin showed. Wide shawls draped and wrapped tightly, guarding her like armor, concealing even her neck and hands. Her figure was hidden so completely that no imagination, no matter how wild, could guess at the curves beneath. Even her hair—long and black—was bound low and neat, with none of the playful braids or ribbons other girls wore.
She was… untouchable.
No—more than that. She was like a breathing statue made of ice.
When they'd arrived earlier that morning, Vikram had asked her twin brother, Aadhi, about her. Aadhi had offered a casual explanation—she was tired from the journey, she just needed time to adjust to a new place and new people. At the time, it seemed reasonable enough.
But now? No. This was no mere fatigue.
Her withdrawal was deliberate. Calculated. There wasn't a shred of curiosity in her about her surroundings. No tentative steps to explore the place, no glances of interest at the new faces she encountered. When she saw him earlier, there had been no spark of shyness or embarrassment—nothing at all. She had looked at him as if he were a chair, or a wall, something that existed but held no significance.
What unsettled him most wasn't her behavior—it was his own reaction to it.
He was twenty-eight. To him, a girl of sixteen should have been a child.
But when he looked at her, he didn't see a child. He saw a woman. And that was what he hated most about this fascination curling inside him.
That night at dinner, Aadhi and Vikram sat at the table. She didn't join them.
"She's skipping dinner?" Vikram asked, his tone sharper than intended.
Aadhi didn't look up from his plate. "She's just like that. Let her be. Don't disturb her."
Vikram's gaze hardened. "She's your own sister, right?"
Aadhi gave a short, humorless chuckle. "Yeah. My own little sister."
Vikram's frown deepened. "You don't seem to care about her."
For a moment, Aadhi didn't answer. Then, in a voice low and absent-minded, he murmured, "What's the point of my care? I'm not in a place to care for her… maybe I don't deserve to be her brother at all."
Something in his tone shifted, the words trailing into something darker. His eyes clouded as if he were about to say more. "Or else, how'd a brother—" He stopped abruptly, as though he'd suddenly realized what he was saying. His mouth closed, his jaw tightening as he swallowed the rest of his sentence.
Vikram leaned forward slightly, his voice steady. "Aadhi."
Aadhi exhaled slowly, forcing a faint smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Vikram anna… she… she's not like any other girls."
It was the first time Aadhi had called him that since Vikram had come here. The word carried weight—an unspoken request wrapped in familiarity.
"Please," Aadhi continued, his tone almost pleading, "take care of her."
Vikram sat back, his mind turning over the fragments of their conversation. There was something here he didn't understand—something both brother and sister were keeping buried.
Her fear. Her guardedness. Aadhi's strange detachment, mingled with guilt.
It was as if they were living behind locked doors, the keys lost long ago.
And without meaning to, he found himself wanting to find those keys.
He told himself he was only curious. That he didn't really care.
But deep down, he knew he was lying.