The wind whispered softly through the forest, brushing the trees and causing them to sway, their leaves colliding in a gentle, rhythmic chorus.
Grandpa stood outside, gazing at the tranquil surroundings, an unhurried peace in his eyes. He closed his eyes briefly, taking in the quiet symphony, but his sharp ears caught the sound of shifting footsteps behind him.
He turned slowly, his intense gaze softening as he saw Khushboo emerging from the house, her face twisted in a series of expressions, muttering to herself as she tugged at her shawl. Upon noticing his eyes on her, she paused, quickly gathering herself, a sparkle lighting up her face. She flashed a bright, genuine smile, her eyes gleaming with warmth as she approached him.
"Grandpa," she greeted him, stretching the "pa" in a playful way, her voice carrying a lightness that had recently begun to soften the heaviness within her.
Grandpa chuckled, his hand instinctively reaching out to rest on her head, offering a gentle, comforting caress. "Can't sleep, dear?" he asked, his voice filled with affectionate concern.
Khushboo shook her head, a small frown appearing. "No, you too?" she replied, as if suddenly aware of how late it was and surprised to find him awake.
He gave a slight nod. "Yes, me too," he admitted, his voice trailing off with a note of quiet contemplation as his eyes shifted to the star-strewn sky above.
She observed him for a moment, curiosity beginning to dance in her expression. "Why are you so kind, Grandpa?" she asked, her voice carrying a blend of wonder and mischief. "You don't even know anything about me."
Grandpa's gaze softened, a small smile creasing his face as he responded, "Child, you don't need to know everything about someone... you just need to understand." His words held a weight of wisdom, the kind that only someone who has seen countless seasons pass could carry.
Khushboo looked away, biting her lip thoughtfully. Understand, she repeated to herself.
After a quiet pause, grandpa added, "Sometimes it's important to say what's on your mind, but sharing your feelings happens only when you want to." His voice was calm, warm, yet held a subtle urgency, as though he sensed the unspoken burdens she carried.
She opened her mouth to respond, then closed it, hesitation swirling within her. She was used to bearing her secrets alone. Could she really open up to this kind old man? But standing here, under the quiet canopy of the forest, with his compassionate eyes on her, she felt a surge of trust.
"Grandpa…" she began tentatively, her voice barely more than a whisper, "sometimes it feels… like I'm living in someone else's story." She paused, searching his face for judgment but finding only patient understanding. "Like I'm just a small character, making a path for someone else."
She stopped abruptly, as if her own words had startled her. Her gaze dropped to her hands, which were fidgeting with the edges of her shawl. The night air felt cooler now, a slight shiver running through her, though whether it was from the chill or from her own vulnerability, she couldn't tell.
Grandpa studied her, his eyes thoughtful yet kind. He remained silent for a moment, letting her words settle between them like a delicate layer of mist. "Child," he finally said, his tone gentle but steady, "we are all characters in someone else's story... and also the writers of our own. You crossed paths with someone else while making your own path, and that was meant to happen."
His words made her pause. She hadn't considered it that way before. Her whole life had felt as though she were swept up in someone else's story, like a leaf caught in a river's current, yet here was grandpa, reminding her that she held the pen as well. She was as much the writer as she was the character.
"Whoever you meet comes into your path for a reason. Maybe by being with them, you find a new way to understand your own story," he continued, his voice unwavering, each word carrying a quiet strength.
She looked up at him, her eyes brimming with gratitude and something else—a newfound sense of purpose, maybe even hope. For the first time, the weight she had carried seemed a little lighter, her path a little clearer.
They stood in silence, the forest around them a still, silent witness to their exchange. And in that shared quiet, Khushboo felt a stirring, an awareness that maybe, just maybe, she was more than a side character—she was someone with a story yet to be fully written.
Khushboo fixed her gaze somewhere distant, lost in thought, debating whether or not she should reveal the truth to Grandpa—that the boy beside her was, in fact, not her husband. She imagined his reaction: the gentle disappointment in his eyes, the furrow of confusion on his brow. A pang of guilt washed over her, but she quickly dismissed the thought. No, she would stick to the original plan. It was too late to back out now.
She bit her lip, steadying herself, then let memories of past sorrows flood her mind. With a slow inhale, she blinked until her eyes welled up, a thin layer of tears shimmering like a well-practiced performance. Her voice broke softly, and she began, "My name is Khushboo… I just got married two days ago." She glanced at Grandpa, whose face showed calm understanding, listening to her every word. "My parents were against our relationship… because…"
Her mind stammered as she realized she hadn't even asked the boy's name. She fought to keep her composure. "Because my husband is trapped in a strange illness." Her voice trembled with the weight of unspoken pain, and now the tears flowed more freely. Her nose turned red as her throat ached from holding back.
"I tried everything… all possible treatments… but..." Her voice broke entirely, and she buried her face in her palms, stifling a soft sob as if the despair was real, clutching at her core.
Grandpa scratched his head, visibly touched by her apparent vulnerability, and was on the verge of reaching out to pat her shoulder in comfort. But before he could act, a steady hand slid across her shoulder, pulling her gently yet firmly into an embrace.
Startled, Khushboo snapped out of her sorrowful act, blinking as she registered the unexpected warmth around her. She looked up, meeting the intense, unreadable gaze of the boy beside her—her supposed husband. His expression was soft but guarded, as if he was holding back a world of emotions. For a moment, her breath caught.
Khushboo's mind raced, overflowing with a flood of unsaid words—most of them not fit for polite company. She wanted to shove him off her, to reclaim her personal space, but with Grandpa standing right there, she couldn't exactly make a scene. Swallowing her irritation, she attempted to ease herself out of his hold slowly, inch by inch. Yet as she moved, his grip only tightened, his hand coming up to gently brush away her tears with unexpected tenderness.
Grandpa cleared his throat, breaking the quiet moment and redirecting her focus. Gathering her wits, Khushboo tried again, giving one last, subtle push against the boy's shoulder. Thankfully, his hold finally relaxed, and she stepped back, her cheeks burning with embarrassment as she stood beside him, eyes cast down.
Trying to compose herself, she muttered under her breath, "meet me later, you..." But her frustration melted as she dared a glance at Grandpa, who looked between the two with a fond, knowing smile, as if he'd seen this all before. It only deepened her sense of awkwardness, leaving her rooted there, praying the ground might swallow her up.
---
"Don't do this, baby," the tall man whispered, his voice warm and steady as he wrapped her tightly in his embrace. His hand moved gently along her back, soothing her while she sobbed softly against his chest, her fingers clinging to the fabric of his shirt as if afraid to let go.
"How could I doubt you?" she mumbled, her voice breaking with each word. "I don't deserve you, Ashwin." She leaned further into his arms, her guilt so heavy it felt like it could pull her under. She wished she could just disappear, to hide away from the shame twisting inside her.
"Darling…" His hand came to rest on her cheek, lifting her face slowly until her tear-filled eyes met his. "No one deserves me if not you," he murmured, his gaze warm yet serious, as if he needed her to understand every word he was saying. With a gentle touch, he brushed the tears from her cheeks, his thumb lingering as he looked at her with unwavering tenderness.
But for Mythili, his kindness only made the guilt sharper. Her thoughts drifted, filled with a jumble of memories and quiet moments they had shared. How could she have doubted him, even for a second? He was her husband—the man who had loved her so completely, who had never once questioned her. And yet, she had. She'd let a small, insignificant thing—a stain of blood on his shirt—cloud her mind with worry. She had actually allowed herself to believe, even briefly, that he could be capable of something so terrible.
What had she been thinking? How could she let a single misplaced suspicion hurt the man who had only ever cherished her? She clung to him a little tighter, hoping that somehow, her embrace could convey everything she felt—the remorse, the regret, the silent promise to never let her mind betray her heart again.
"Don't overthink," a gentle touch on her head pulled Mythili out of her spiraling thoughts. She looked up, meeting Ashwin's soft gaze, his expression filled with calm reassurance.
"Will he be alright…?" she asked, her voice still slightly crackly from her earlier tears.
"He's already fine," he replied softly, patting her head with a comforting hand. "I've arranged everything; there's no need to worry." With a final, gentle pat, he tidied her hair before reaching for her hand. "Let's go home."
Mythili nodded, casting a last, lingering glance at the large hospital building before following him. Her steps were slow, her mind still clouded by everything that had happened.
As they approached the car, Ashwin opened the door for her, and she offered him a faint, grateful smile as she slipped into the seat. He settled in beside her and gave a curt nod to the driver. "Home," he instructed.
The car began to move, and Mythili turned to look out the window, her mind whirling with uncertainty. She bit her lip nervously, not quite knowing how to express what was weighing on her heart. Ashwin, noticing her small, anxious gestures, sighed softly. His lips curved in a faint smile as he wrapped an arm around her waist, gently tugging her onto his lap. He leaned close, his voice a gentle murmur in her ear. "Sleep," he whispered.
Mythili shifted, finding comfort in his embrace, though sleep didn't come easily. She couldn't shake the recent events from her mind. Yet, exhaustion eventually crept over her, loosening her muscles, and without even realizing it, she drifted off, her breathing soft and even against his chest.
Ashwin's gaze lingered on the woman resting in his arms, his wife, as the tenderness in his expression slowly gave way to a flicker of anger. He brushed a gentle hand along her cheek, his thoughts darkening. It's not time for you to know, he mused inwardly, his jaw tightening.
Pulling out his phone, he typed a quick message: Kill him.
After a moment's pause, his eyes settled on Mythili's peaceful face. His mind drifted to another thought, and his fingers moved again across the screen.
: Find all the information about Khushboo.
He pocketed his phone, his eyes drifting back to his wife as he tightened his hold around her, feeling a surge of protectiveness and possessiveness.