It had turned to night since afternoon, yet Rishi was still lost in that book. There was something magical about the writer's words, anyone who started reading would keep going without pause. That's exactly what happened with Rishi. He had read many of the writer's books before, but this one was different. It hadn't been published. He had reached the end, but now he was frustrated. The story felt incomplete, and the ending was tragic.
"Why does this writer always end things on such a sad note?" he muttered.
"Because human life itself is built on sorrow," the writer said, suddenly appearing right beside him.
Rishi was startled, and also annoyed by the writer's sudden presence.
"Human life isn't sorrowful. It's your rotten perspective that makes it seem that way. If someone only sees the world through a negative lens, everything will look miserable to them."
The writer smiled gently.
"Rishi, my Aphrodite, you're still a naïve little bird. You've only just been born. You don't even know what your true purpose is, or how surrounded you are by danger right now. If I hadn't been here, you'd have been reduced to ashes by now. Your mother would've been placing a garland on your photo."
Rishi was furious now.
"Who do you think you are? Just because you've written a few books, you think you're some kind of all-knowing sage? You've learned a couple of things about me and now you believe you know everything? I can't stand narcissistic people like you. I don't want to stay here another second. Take me home right now. I don't want to know anything about you. To hell with you and your books."
He kept speaking, but deep down, something inside him wasn't ready to let go.
"Whatever you want. Let's go, I'll drop you home," the writer said, and Rishi was taken aback. He had expected the writer to stop him, to say something. But he didn't. All Rishi could do was stare at him with wide eyes.
The writer walked out quickly, and Rishi followed. In the next moment, the writer stood in front of him, holding his bag. He tossed it toward Rishi, who caught it instinctively. Still stunned, Rishi kept looking at him. The writer didn't wait and walked ahead.
"I'll take you to your house," he said as he moved forward. Rishi followed silently. He had no words. He wanted to stop the writer, but he couldn't. He didn't want to give in, yet something inside him didn't want to leave.
The writer had reached the gate of Red Pine. A cigarette was already lit between his fingers. His face looked tense, as if burdened by something. Rishi quietly walked behind him. He glanced back at the house once—it was now swallowed by darkness. His heart felt heavy. It had only been three days since he arrived, but somehow, he felt an unexpected connection to the place.
They walked along a narrow trail. Neither of them spoke. The writer led the way, and Rishi followed. Moonlight lit their path. Rishi didn't feel afraid at all. Maybe being with the writer made him feel safe.
They kept walking. What Rishi didn't know was that the trail behind them was slowly disappearing. If he had turned around even once, he would've seen nothing but bushes.
Suddenly, on the damp, rocky path, Rishi slipped and fell. The writer, who was walking ahead, took a drag from his cigarette and exhaled deeply before turning around. He reached out his hand to Rishi. Rishi pouted and looked at him, then finally gave him his hand.
The writer pulled him up but didn't let go. Instead, he kept walking, dragging Rishi along. His hands were ice cold, as if they had just come out of a freezer. Rishi looked at him, but the writer's eyes were fixed ahead. Smoke from his cigarette drifted toward Rishi's face.
After about half an hour, they reached a road. Rishi looked around. There was nothing but forest in every direction.
Suddenly, he heard the sound of a car unlocking. He turned his head and saw a car parked by the roadside. Rishi immediately looked at the writer, who was holding the car keys. Before he could make sense of anything, the writer pulled him toward the car and stood him beside it. Then he let go of Rishi's hand and got into the driver's seat. Rishi quietly sat beside him.
The car sped down the empty road at full speed, while Rishi still couldn't figure out how to stop the writer. Had he overreacted back in the library? His mind was flooded with questions.
Suddenly, the car came to a halt. Rishi looked ahead—it was the same house where he and Vedant shared a room. It felt as if someone had placed a heavy stone on his chest. His feet felt frozen, as though he didn't recognize the place anymore. As if he had never lived there. As if he had no connection to it at all.
There was something precious he had left behind.
He stepped out slowly, his legs heavy, and began walking toward the house. The writer turned the car around and stopped a little ahead. Rishi had reached the door. The writer lit another cigarette and took a deep drag.
"I hope this isn't our final meeting, Rishi Thakur. Because I don't want it to end here. But I can't force you into anything," he said, taking another long drag, holding the smoke in his lungs as if he wanted it to hurt him, as if he wanted to disappear into it.
He turned the steering wheel and pressed the accelerator. The car moved forward, and Rishi, standing at the door, felt left behind. As if the writer was now drifting far, far away from his life. As if he was vanishing from this world once again.
Rishi's heart sank. Had he missed his chance?
"It was as if he wanted to stop the writer, but he couldn't."