After that night, time inside Flat Number 369 began to move in a strange way. The clock hands still turned, but for Krishna it wasn't the days that stayed with him—it was the evenings. Morning meant work. Afternoon meant exhaustion. Night meant the wall. These three became fixed points in his life. Among them, only the wall was new. And yet, it felt the most real. Because there, he didn't have to pretend. He didn't have to hide his pain. The simple knowledge that someone existed on the other side of the wall was enough.
Talking to Janaki became a habit. The cautious words of the beginning now came naturally.
"What did you eat today?"
"How was work?"
Small questions like these. Yet between them were large silences. In those silences, both of them placed their lives.
When Janaki spoke of her day, it wasn't merely a list of chores. There was a slow fatigue in her voice—one that no one saw, no one asked about. Krishna could recognize it. Because the same fatigue lived inside him.
One evening, Krishna returned late from work. It was raining outside. Mud clung to his feet. As he stepped inside, the first thought that crossed his mind was—Should I sit near the wall today or not? He smiled at himself. Even asking that question had become a habit. He washed his hands, made coffee, and slowly sat near the wall.
"It's raining today," he said—like a key to begin a conversation.
A soft laugh came from the other side.
"Yes," Janaki said.
With just that word, it felt as though they were sharing the same weather.
As they spoke about the rain, the conversation slowly drifted toward memories.
"I like the rain," Janaki said. "It covers all the noises outside. Only the sounds inside remain."
Krishna listened in silence. Radha used to say the same thing. Whenever it rained, she would stand in the balcony, looking somewhere far away, and say, "A person is truly alone only in the rain." That memory gripped him tightly. But this time, he did not pull away. He didn't push it aside. Because there was someone on the other side of the wall.
As days passed, laughter began to appear more often in their conversations. Janaki laughed at small things. She shared tiny incidents from her home.
"The fan in this house always makes the same sound," she said once. "Just hearing it puts me to sleep."
Krishna laughed.
"Maybe our houses have habits too," he said.
Janaki fell silent.
That silence lasted a little longer than usual.
"Yes," she finally said. "Some houses never let us go."
There was something hidden in those words. But neither of them touched it.
This friendship of words brought a new stability into Krishna's life. He noticed something—he had stopped looking at Radha's photograph before sleeping. Not because he had forgotten her. But because before looking at the photo, the words he had spoken with Janaki would come to mind.
That realization frightened him.
Was he betraying Radha?
Was he reducing his pain?
But somewhere deep inside, a voice answered—this wasn't betrayal. It was simply a sign that life was still moving.
One night, Janaki suddenly asked,
"Should we ever meet?"
The question stopped Krishna instantly. Images rushed through his mind—the wall, the door, the corridor. And then a strange thought followed—If we meet, will this wall lose its meaning?
Carefully, he asked,
"Why should we meet?"
Janaki laughed.
"Not for any reason. I was just curious," she said.
There was no disappointment in her voice. Only curiosity. Krishna exhaled.
"Someday," he said.
Even to himself, that answer felt unclear.
That night, a strange sound came from the wall—not during their usual conversation. It was past midnight. It sounded like someone walking. Krishna sat up immediately.
"Janaki?" he called.
After a moment, her voice came.
"I'm here. Just a headache."
Krishna grew concerned.
"Did you see a doctor?" he asked.
She laughed.
"It's nothing serious."
But there was exhaustion in that laugh. He didn't ask anything more. Yet the sound stayed with him.
Days passed. The friendship of words turned into routine. Once a habit forms, its absence feels like emptiness.
One day, Janaki didn't speak.
Krishna sat near the wall for a long time, waiting. Nothing. He didn't understand why it felt so uncomfortable. He questioned himself.
Are you depending on her?
The question frightened him. But at the same time, it revealed a truth. A person can live alone. But after sharing silence with someone, being alone again becomes difficult.
Late that night, a voice finally came from the wall.
"Sorry… I fell asleep," Janaki said.
Krishna smiled—relief in that smile.
"It's okay," he replied.
And it truly was okay. Because she had returned.
That night, they didn't talk much. But the silence was no longer frightening. It had become friendly.
Krishna understood something clearly—this friendship was dangerous. Because it was pulling him out of his pain. But at the same time, it was necessary. Because it was keeping him alive.
He felt that Janaki, on the other side of the wall, was feeling the same.
They had never seen each other.
Yet with words, they had built a home.
Not with bricks.
In Flat Number 369, the friendship of words had now turned into a silent agreement.
I am here.
You are here too.
That was enough.
Yet behind this friendship, a truth lay hidden.
That night, no words came from the wall. Krishna did not know whether Janaki had fallen asleep or was lost within herself. But the silence did not feel new to him. It was not heavy either. That silence did not abandon him—it drew him inward. Krishna lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. Sleep did not come. Even without the voice from beyond the wall, another voice began to speak softly within him. It was not Janaki. It was Radha.
Radha had not entered his life suddenly. She had arrived slowly, naturally, slipping into his days without force. First as a colleague. Then as a friend. And later… as a part of his breathing. When he first saw her in college, he felt nothing extraordinary. A simple girl. No elaborate adornments. But there was a strange spark in her eyes. It wasn't beauty. It was a question. Those eyes always seemed to be searching for something. He had ignored that question then. He did not know that one day, it would pull him into love.
Radha spoke carefully. Silence often filled the spaces between her words. Yet even that silence carried meaning. "A person doesn't truly live when they speak a lot," she once said, "but when they think." Krishna had laughed. At the time, those words felt overly philosophical. But now… they had become a definition of his life. Radha had taught him how to think—not only about history, but about himself.
The days they spent on fieldwork near Chidambaram marked a turning point in his life. In those forests, beneath the shadows of temples, deep inside caves, the time they spent together felt like a separate world. Leaving early in the morning, walking over soil, touching stone, reading history—and then sitting beneath a tree's shade at noon, even their simple meals felt like celebrations. Sometimes Radha would fall silent. When Krishna looked at her, she would be staring somewhere far away.
"What happened?" he would ask.
"Nothing," she would say. "It just feels like something is close."
She didn't know what that something was. But soon, he began to feel it too.
The day they descended into the cave split his life into two halves. One—before that day. And the other—after it. The moment they stepped inside, Radha stopped suddenly.
"Here…" she said. "The air is different here."
Krishna didn't pay attention at first. But as they moved deeper, he felt it too. Emptiness—but not hollow. When they saw the stone at the heart of the cave, Radha's eyes did not shine with fear, but with joy.
"This is what we were meant to find," she said.
At that moment, Krishna felt afraid—not of the cave, but of her. Because that joy was not ordinary. It was joy tied to responsibility.
That night, they sat near the cave for a long time, talking. Radha spoke about dark matter—about invisible forces that keep the universe in balance.
"This stone is like that," she said. "It cannot be seen… but without it, everything collapses."
As Krishna listened, he watched her. In that moment, he understood—she was not just a scientist. She was a guardian. Someone who had unknowingly placed a burden upon her shoulders.
From then on, Radha changed. Her laughter faded. Her silence grew. But her love did not lessen. It deepened.
"Our life will never be ordinary," she said once. "We are holding something dangerous."
That was the first time Krishna felt fear—not because of love, but because of the danger that came with it. Yet he did not step back. Because she did not step back.
That danger took her away from him.
That day began like any other. They went out together. Radha was looking at something on her phone.
"I'll show you this later," she said, smiling.
That smile was the last.
What followed—noise, people, screams—merged into chaos. Sitting outside the hospital, Krishna stared at his hands. They were trembling. Hands that had dug through earth, touched stone—but that day, they could not hold hers.
Six months passed. But that day remained frozen within him. Returning to Chidambaram felt like a punishment. Yet it was a punishment he chose. When he stepped into Flat Number 369, he did not leave Radha behind. He brought only her memories. She lived in every corner. But now… something had changed. Janaki's voice stirred those memories. For the first time, he did not run from them. He touched them.
Krishna sat up. The night had gone far. He looked toward the wall. Silence. But this silence no longer frightened him. It felt like a promise. Radha was gone. But his life had not stopped. It was searching for a new path. Even if that path was dangerous, he had no other choice.
He stepped onto the balcony and looked at the sky. The stars were faint. Radha had once said, "Our story is like the stars. They look small—but they give light even from a distance."
Krishna closed his eyes. The light was still there. It had not gone out. Now, it was leading him toward another story—one waiting beyond the wall.
That night, in Flat Number 369, something changed.
Radha's memories no longer only caused pain. They made Krishna stronger. Because love does not die. It changes form.
And that form…
was about to become a voice from beyond the wall.