As Pradeep tapes the end of the bandage down, his fingers brushing lightly against her skin, Anaya feels something stir-something deep, old, and barely conscious.
Not pain. Not comfort.
Something quieter. Something between.
A memory-dusty and sunlit-pushes its way through, like a breeze sneaking in through an old window.
[distant wind chime] [soft rustle of leaves]
She's seven again. The temple courtyard is wide and warm, the red bricks hot beneath her feet as she runs barefoot, laughing too loudly, chasing something-maybe a balloon, maybe nothing at all.
[childish laughter] [birdsong]
And then-
A slip.
A fall.
[thud]
Her knees hitting the ground, dust swirling with the sharp smell of iron and scraped skin. The laughter caught in her throat.
[brief hush]
She remembers the sting, the silence right before the sob.
But then-Satiya. Ten-year-old Satiya, scrawny and serious, already too quiet for his age. No teasing, no fuss. Just him dropping to the ground beside her, unscrewing the bottle cap with too-small hands and whispering urgently, "Don't move."
[gentle water pouring]
He'd rinsed her wound with cold water. Ripped a piece of his handkerchief. Wrapped it around her knee with more care than anyone had ever shown her.
And then, as she blinked back tears, he'd said, so softly it nearly vanished in the wind:
"You always get hurt when you're too happy."
[soft breeze]
She hadn't cried that day. Not because it didn't hurt-but because someone had seen her. Tended to her before she even knew how to ask.
And now, all these years later, she doesn't cry either. But she feels it again-that ache. That soft, unnameable ache that isn't sadness but lives nearby.
Because Pradeep is doing the same thing.
Different boy. Different hands.
But something about the stillness of it-his careful attention, his silence-it touches that same old place.
[gentle taping sound] [faint antiseptic scent in the air]
When he's done, he rises, brushing invisible dust from his hands.
[fabric shifting]
His voice, when he speaks, is low and matter-of-fact.
"You're good now."
Anaya nods. "Yeah. Thanks."
But her heart doesn't let go so easily.
In her heart, a story is continuing-
One she hasn't figured out how to read yet.
She glances up at him, startled-not by his words, but by the way he said them. Gentle. Grounded. Like he wasn't just talking about her ankle.
And maybe, just maybe, something in his voice echoed faintly with that long-ago afternoon. Another courtyard. Another boy.
She blinked rapidly.
[clock ticking faintly in background]
Why now?
Why, just when she thought she had begun to forget?
He was just bandaging her foot.
It was nothing.
But it was everything, too.
Her mind wandered again-falling, like it had fallen that day in the courtyard. Another flash: Satiya holding a cartoon bandaid with clumsy fingers, shaking his head and saying,
"Do you always get hurt this easily?"
Half-annoyed, half-protective.
She could still remember how the bandaid was crooked, how he kept looking away as he pressed it down. How neither of them spoke after.
And now-here she was again.
Different skin. Different scrape. Different silence.
Pradeep wasn't like Satiya.
And yet...
She felt the same stillness inside her. The same soft pull-like her soul remembering something her brain hadn't caught up with.
In the present, her breath caught. It was too much and too little at once.
Pradeep looked up, sensing it. His gaze searched hers-not with urgency, but with quiet noticing.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice softer than before.
She nodded, but didn't trust her voice enough to speak.
[muted footsteps outside door]
He didn't press. Didn't ask more.
And maybe-maybe that's what made her feel safest of all.
That he didn't push open the door, but left it ajar. Waiting.
Outside, a bell rang distantly.
[school bell rings faintly]
Students somewhere laughing, chairs scraping, someone yelling across a hallway.
[background chatter]
Normal life went on.
But here, in this room that smelled faintly of antiseptic and dust, time seemed to have paused.
Something in the air shifted. Not dramatically. Not like a movie.
But like the soft turn of a page in a book you didn't realize you were reading.
[page flip]
Anaya lowered her foot slowly to the floor, feeling the secure tightness of the bandage. But her gaze remained on Pradeep.
His sleeves were rolled slightly at the wrist. His expression unreadable, but not distant. Still beside her-but in that usual Pradeep way, slightly apart too. Always slightly apart.
"You've done that before," she finally said, her voice quiet.
He looked over, eyebrow lifting just a little. "Told someone they're good now?"
"No," she smiled faintly, "I meant... first aid."
"Ah." He leaned back against the table.
[table creaks slightly]
"Yeah. Deepak's terrible at stairs. It's like he doesn't believe in looking down."
Anaya gave a small laugh, but it came out uneven.
[half-laugh]
Pradeep studied her for a moment, but didn't say anything more. Maybe he knew there was more happening inside her than she was letting on. Maybe he didn't.
But either way-he didn't invade the silence.
She liked that.
Not the silence itself-but the way he treated it.
Like something that didn't have to be filled. Like something that was allowed to exist.
Her eyes drifted to the floor, to her ankle, to his fingers. Still slightly red from the antiseptic.
She could feel her mind trying to link it all together-this moment, that courtyard, the ache in her chest that didn't belong to just one timeline.
And maybe that's how healing worked, too. Not in straight lines, but in circles.
In echoes.
Pradeep didn't say anything when she stood up. Just watched, ready in case she swayed.
[chair leg scrapes faintly]
But she didn't.
Not outwardly.
Still, something had shifted inside her. She could feel it-the soft unthreading of something tightly wound. Not unraveling, exactly. But loosening. Breathing.
She looked at him again, trying to find the right words. Failing.
Instead, she said, "You should carry lollipops."
He blinked. "What?"
"For your future patients," she said, lifting an eyebrow. "It's basic medical protocol."
His lips twitched. "Right. I'll write that down."
"Don't forget. I want orange flavor."
He smiled, a little wider this time. "I thought you were brave."
"I was. But still. Orange lollipop."
He gave a mock-nod, and she caught the faint trace of amusement in his eyes-eyes that were sharp, yes, but always observing. Always careful.
And as she stepped past him, moving toward the door, she felt it again-that strange, flickering feeling in her chest.
Like the past had left a note in the present.
Like someone had whispered through time:
You always get hurt when you're too happy.
But maybe now, she wasn't alone in the falling.
Maybe someone else was walking beside her.
Even if he didn't know it yet.
Even if she didn't, fully, either.
Outside, the school day went on.
[muffled hallway chatter, distant door closing]
But inside Anaya-
A memory was reborn.
And a story had just begun.
----
To be continued...