Ira learned two things before the pain returned.
First—the silence here was alive.
Second—Devansh was the kind of man whose presence changed the shape of a room.
She sat on the stone platform, knees drawn to her chest, fingers pressed into her shawl as if it might anchor her to herself. The ache inside her hadn't vanished after she woke. It had settled—quiet, heavy, coiled.
Like something that had decided to stay.
"You shouldn't be here," Devansh said.
She looked up at him. "You already said that."
"And yet you remain."
"So do you."
He did not respond. Instead, he turned slightly, as if measuring the distance between them without stepping closer.
"People don't usually feel me," he said after a pause.
Ira swallowed. "I wish I hadn't."
That was a lie.
She didn't wish it—but she feared what it meant.
"You carry something that isn't yours," Devansh continued. "It's dangerous."
She laughed softly. "That's been my whole life."
Something in her voice made him still.
"How long?" he asked.
"Since childhood." She hesitated, then added, "Touch makes it worse. Proximity too."
His jaw tightened. "Then staying here will destroy you."
"Then why haven't you asked me to leave?"
The question hung between them.
Devansh had enforced the laws of Vayukshi for centuries. Mortals wandered close; they were turned away. Curiosity dissolved into confusion. Memory blurred.
He had never let anyone stay.
Yet the thought of guiding her back now felt… incorrect.
"I broke a rule when I carried you," he said quietly. "I don't know why."
Ira met his gaze. "Then we're both already guilty."
For the first time since she arrived, the pain eased—just slightly.