Returning from Mussoorie did not return Noor to herself.
The hills faded behind them, replaced by familiar roads, familiar walls, familiar prayers—but something inside her had shifted permanently. The silence she once carried like comfort now felt heavy, almost suffocating. Noor prayed harder than before, kneeling longer on cold stone floors until her knees ached, her lips whispering forgiveness over and over as if repetition could erase desire. She woke before dawn to light candles, stayed back after evening prayers to clean altars that were already spotless. She tried to drown herself in devotion.
But peace did not come.
Instead, the chaos inside her grew sharper.
She spoke less to the other nuns, her smiles becoming thin and distant. She found excuses to be alone—watering the sunflowers until the soil turned to mud, feeding pigeons grain by grain, lingering just to feel something gentle respond to her touch. The birds trusted her. They always had. She envied them—their freedom, their lack of vows.
Anunay's confession echoed relentlessly in her mind. It should have filled her with guilt, but what terrified her most was not guilt—it was clarity. His love had awakened something she could no longer deny. Love was no longer an abstract sin discussed in sermons. It was alive. Breathing. Standing far too close to her heart.
Yet even as Anunay's words replayed, her heart betrayed her, whispering another name.
Arunav.
The man from the train was no longer a passing miracle. He lingered in her thoughts like unfinished prayer. His voice returned to her in quiet moments, steady and unassuming. His presence in her dreams was never dramatic—he simply stood there, watching her with a gentleness that undid her.
He hadn't spoken of destiny or beauty the way men often did.
When he had said, "You were beautiful," he hadn't meant her face.
He had meant the moment she knelt beside a wounded pigeon, whispering prayers with trembling lips, tearing her own scarf to bind its bleeding wing. He had seen her compassion. Her softness. Her soul.
No one had ever looked at her that way before.
Sister Catherine noticed the change long before Noor admitted it to herself. One afternoon, as she brushed Noor's hair slowly, like a mother delaying goodbye, she spoke softly.
"It's okay to want more than service, Noor," she said. "Even God understands love. He created it, after all."
Noor said nothing. She couldn't agree. She couldn't deny it either.
That night, she knelt before the crucifix until candle wax pooled at her feet."Forgive me," she whispered. "I let the world in."
And then Arunav returned.
He came to the church one quiet morning, asking for confession. Noor stood alone in the corridor when she saw him walking toward the chapel. For a moment, neither of them moved.
Their eyes met.
"What crimes today?" she asked softly, her voice betraying nothing.
He smiled faintly. "The crime of not being able to stop thinking about you."
Her breath caught. She turned away at once.
But he stepped closer, his voice low. "I came to confess," he said, "but found the reason I keep sinning."
Her heart pounded violently. She said nothing—could say nothing—and walked away quickly, her footsteps echoing too loudly in the empty hall, her chest tight as if something inside her was breaking free.
After that, she avoided him.
Whenever he came, she hid behind curtains on the upper floor, watching him from shadows like a coward and a lover all at once. He never searched for her. Never cornered her. Never demanded answers.
He simply waited.
That made it worse.
Sister Vaalark noticed too. The Head Nun had already begun preparing Noor as her successor."You are meant to guide, not wander," she said firmly.
Noor respected her too much to argue. But every act of obedience felt like snapping another bone inside her chest—silent, invisible, agonizing.
Then one evening, Arunav left a note.
Meet me once. I promise nothing more than words.
Her hands trembled as she read it.
She went.
They sat beneath the old fig tree, dusk settling around them like a held breath."Why are you avoiding me?" he asked gently.
"Because I don't have feelings for you," she replied.
Her voice was steady. Her eyes were not.
Arunav didn't argue. Didn't plead. He simply nodded and stood."Then I wish you peace."
That night, as he passed the chapel, he heard her voice drifting through an open window.
"Forgive me for lying," she whispered. "Forgive me for falling in love."
The next morning, he was waiting.
"Do nuns sin too?" he asked softly.
"Yes," she whispered. "We are human."
"And humans are made to love."
"But my promise," she said. "My faith."
"Some promises," he replied gently, "are born from fear."
He handed her a folded paper. "If you change your mind… I'll be waiting."
That night, the moon looked like a question without an answer.
She packed a small bag.
When she opened the door, Sister Vaalark stood there like judgment itself."You will not do this!"
The slap echoed.
Then chaos.
Sister Amira's scream. The crash of the vase. Vaalark falling.
"Run," Amira whispered.
They ran.
Arunav's car waited.
As they fled, Noor sobbed, "Why did you help me?"
"Because you were brave enough to feel," Amira said. "And I wanted to live."
The car disappeared into the night.
And behind them, faith, fear, and fate shattered all at once.