The desert night had settled over the town, and Amar Veer Randhawa walked slowly down the narrow street, his boots kicking up tiny clouds of sand. The wind whispered against the walls of the haveli across the road, carrying the scent of old stone and dust. Every step he took was measured, deliberate. Years of training—years of missions that left marks deeper than scars—kept him alert, watching.
He paused near the corner, keeping the haveli in sight. The window was dark now. No light. Nothing. And yet, his instincts told him something was very wrong. The place was supposed to be abandoned. Empty. Dead. And yet, it wasn't. Amar could feel it—the tension in the air, the way shadows moved differently under the moonlight, the almost imperceptible sound of a floorboard settling inside.
He checked his watch. Nothing unusual about the time. But the signal had already been sent. And someone had received it.
Somewhere behind him, a faint rustle made him turn sharply. Nothing. Only the wind and sand. He let out a quiet breath. The desert had a way of teaching patience. Amar had learned it the hard way. He knew every pause, every still moment could mean life—or death.
Meanwhile, Shivangi Thakur was already several blocks away, moving with the kind of calm precision that came from years of experience no one in the town could imagine. She had prepared for this moment long before the light had appeared. Every step she took was calculated. Every glance, measured. Unlike Amar, she had a plan. And yet, even with a plan, she couldn't ignore the sudden rush of tension the desert brought at night.
Shivangi had kept her past hidden from everyone, even those who thought they knew her. People assumed she was quiet, polite, maybe even ordinary. But she carried skills no one could guess. She could read a person in seconds, notice the smallest shifts in behavior, and anticipate moves before they happened. Tonight, those skills would be tested.
Back near the haveli, Amar crouched slightly, moving to a darker shadow as he studied the building. Memories flickered in his mind—flashbacks of a desert far away, missions that had left him wondering if silence was more dangerous than sound. Those missions, those orders, were long over. Or so he thought. But tonight, the past was whispering. Whispering through a light in an abandoned house that should have meant nothing.
He glanced at the streets around him. Empty. Silent. Too silent. His hand brushed against the small device he kept in his pocket. Not a weapon. A tracker. A communicator. Something simple that could save a life—or reveal a secret. He didn't move fast. He moved smart. Patience was his ally.
Shivangi appeared on the other side of the street, just at the edge of the shadows, her figure almost invisible against the desert walls. Their eyes met for a brief moment. Neither spoke. Neither smiled. And yet, in that second, a silent understanding passed between them. They were both waiting for the same thing. The signal had been sent. Now it was time to respond.
The desert wind picked up, rattling the old wooden shutters of the haveli. Amar felt it brush across his neck like a warning. Shivangi, one block over, paused as if she had felt the same thing. They moved closer, both careful, both aware that the night would not forgive mistakes.
And for the first time in years, Amar and Shivangi knew—the past had arrived.