CHAPTER 5

Aarvi

The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes wasn’t the sky.

It was white.

Too white.

The ceiling above me blinked with soft, square lights that hummed like a distant swarm of bees. I blinked back, trying to move, but my arms were wrapped in cloth, and my body ached in places I didn’t even know could ache.

It smelled sharp—like something clean but cold. No incense. No warm sandalwood. No hint of rose water that usually trailed behind Mata’s statue in the ashram.

This wasn’t my chamber.

This wasn’t even the temple.

Where... was I?

I tried to sit, but the soft beeping near my head sped up, like my heartbeat was being pulled into wires. I turned my head and saw... a mirror?

No. A window. With glass so clean it looked like air.

And in that reflection—I saw her.

Me.

My hair was loose and wild, falling over my shoulders like ink. My skin looked pale, almost like the clay idols before they are painted. I stared at my own face, as if seeing a stranger. My eyes weren’t glowing, like the villagers whispered. They were just tired. Afraid.

Confused.

“Oh! She’s awake,” someone said, in a strange accent. The words bent in my ears like broken Sanskrit.

Two women in white walked in. One held something in her hand—a flat object that glowed with letters. The other was smiling kindly, but her mouth moved too fast.

“Can you hear me, sweetheart?”

Sweet? Heart? What does that mean?

I nodded slowly, unsure if I was agreeing or surrendering.

“Okay, okay. No head trauma,” the taller one muttered, scribbling something.

I understood only three words—okay, head, and no. Everything else was... foreign.

They pressed cold metal to my chest, checked my eyes with a light, then gave me water through a thin pipe. I wanted to say thank you, but my tongue wouldn’t move. Or maybe... it didn’t know how to say anything that made sense here.

This wasn’t my world.

Not the stone courtyard of the ashram, not the chants, not the quiet birds that fed at the windowsill. Here, everything was strange, buzzing, blinking, talking too fast.

Too loud.

“No ID, no Aadhaar, no phone, no guardian...” a man’s voice outside the curtain said in English.

I held onto one word: guardian. I wasn’t supposed to have one, was I? Not anymore.

Then, just as I began to panic again, a different voice entered the space.

Low. Steady. Hindi.

“She understands Hindi,” he said. “Everyone else, out.”

The nurses parted like the wind had pushed them. And then—he stepped in.

The man from the dream.

But this time... he wasn’t light and shadow.

He was real.

His presence wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. He wore black. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing veins like rivers running under his skin. His eyes... they weren’t just eyes. They were stories—hidden under the weight of power, rage, and something heavier... grief.

“Tum theek ho?” he asked softly.

That—I understood.

I nodded, but my hands trembled.

“Tumhein kya chahiye?” he asked.

I looked down, unsure how to answer. I didn’t know what I wanted. Only what I feared.

So I said the only thing I could.

“Wapas mat bhejna.”

Don’t send me back.

His gaze sharpened, but he didn’t question. He just sat down slowly beside me, pulling the chair closer without asking. He didn’t ask why. He didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t even ask who are you.

He just watched me like he already knew I didn’t belong anywhere else but here, in this strange in-between space.

“Tumhara naam?” he asked finally.

“Aarvi,” I whispered.

He paused. Then repeated it like a prayer. Like it meant more than I understood.

“Aarvi.”

Viransh

There are very few things in this world that confuse me.

This girl was one of them.

Her name was all I had—Aarvi. No full name. No documents. No police report of a missing child. I had people search through temple registries, hospital records, even black-market ledgers.

Nothing.

It was as if she didn’t exist until last night.

But I saw her. I hit her car. I carried her in my arms like something... precious. Fragile. Her blood on my hands refused to leave, even after I washed them ten times.

And now she sat in a hospital bed like a ghost pulled into light for the first time.

She looked at everything like it was a sin to be this free. She was scared of the windows, of the television screen across the wall. She didn’t understand English—every time someone spoke in it, she went still.

But the moment I switched to Hindi—she softened. Not relaxed. Just... less afraid.

She didn’t even know how to eat with a fork.

“Aarvi,” I said again that evening, as I stepped back into the room with warm roti rolls and dal in a steel tiffin. “I got this from home. I figured... hospital food wasn’t for you.”

Her eyes flickered with relief at the smell. She took the food with both hands, whispering a faint dhanyavaad.

“You’re not from the city,” I said, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “And yet no one knows where you came from.”

She paused mid-bite. Then slowly, she spoke.

“Main ek ashram mein thi. Pandit ji ke saath.”

“Which ashram?”

“Gaon ke paas ek purana mandir tha. Wahi.”

I nodded. I knew the one.

But when I had my men call the priest, he denied everything.

“No girl like that lives here,” he said. “You must be mistaken.”

Lying.

He was lying.

Aarvi didn’t speak like someone pretending. She didn’t act. Her confusion was too real, too raw. When the elevator opened on the hospital floor earlier, she backed away like it was a cave swallowing people whole.

She didn’t know what a phone was. She asked if the glowing glass in the corner was a magic box. When the doctor tried to explain her X-ray, she whispered, "Yeh jaadu hai kya?"

No.

This wasn’t acting.

This was... innocence. Real. Dangerous. And painfully rare.

So rare it scared me.

“Aarvi,” I said, after she finished eating. “You don’t have to go back.”

She looked up sharply, the roti frozen midair in her hand.

“Main tumhein wapas nahi bhejunga.”

I didn’t know why I said it. Maybe because of the way her eyes lit up—not with joy, but disbelief. Like she wasn’t used to kindness without conditions.

“Lekin... main kahaan jaaungi?” she asked, voice cracking.

Where will I go?

I took a breath.

“Mere saath.”

She flinched.

I expected that.

But she didn’t protest. She just nodded slowly, like she didn’t know what she was agreeing to, but it was still better than what she was running from.

"mein thodi der mein ata hu ... hmm?" i asked

she just noded her head

AARVI'S POV -

I was looking at myself in mirror when i heard the door click again. It was him, he didn't said any words;

Instead, he came closer, holding a soft folded cloth — no, a dress.

A light, simple cotton suit in cream. It had delicate embroidery near the collar and a matching dupatta. Nothing flashy. Just... soft.

“Yeh pehn lo,” he said, placing it gently beside me. “Tumhare kapde... khoon se...”

I looked down. My temple clothes were torn and stained. I hadn’t noticed until now. My fingers trembled as I touched the new fabric.

“I’ll wait outside,” he said. “Darwaza andar se lock kar lena.”

I did as he said, slowly, weakly changing out of the familiar and into the unknown. The fabric was soft — it didn't feel like sin. It felt... warm. Like someone wanted me to be okay.

When I opened the door again, he wasn’t on his phone or looking away. He was waiting. Looking straight at me.

I now know some of items called like the device in his hands is phone and that thing is i machine, the thing up in the ceiling is AC.

He didn’t say anything, but walked toward me with something in hand — a comb.

“Tumhare baal...” he said awkwardly. “Uljh gaye hain.”

I flinched slightly when he stepped closer, but he didn’t touch me harshly. He moved carefully, untangling my hair with the gentleness of someone trained in violence but not in comfort.

Each stroke of the comb was slow, almost hesitant. His fingers accidentally brushed my shoulder once, but he pulled back immediately, like it burned him.

When he was done, he crouched down slightly. “Main tumhein yahan nahi chhod sakta.”

My eyes widened. “Kya... aap mujhe wapas le jaa rahe ho...?” I whispered.

He shook his head.

“Nahi. Tum wapas jaane layak nahi ho.”

He didn’t ask me. He didn’t need my permission. But somehow, I wasn’t scared. Not this time. I was feeling like i know him from eternity, and this was making me trust him more.

He looked at me for a second, then bent forward — one arm beneath my legs, the other supporting my back — and before I could understand, he lifted me up.

Gently. Not like a weight, not like a burden — but like something breakable, valuable.

Bridal style.

My breath caught in my chest.

He didn’t look at me as he walked out of the hospital room — just held me close like he was used to protecting things he shouldn’t feel anything for.

But I wasn’t scared anymore.

For the first time in seventeen years, I didn’t feel caged.

I felt carried.

VIRANSH'S POV -

The moment I lifted her in my arms, something shifted.

Her body was light, but it carried centuries of silence. I could feel it in her hands, curled like petals unsure of sun. Her head rested on my shoulder, and for a second — just a second — the world shut up.

No phones.

No shadows.

No blood-stained calls.

Just her breath.

I walked past the hospital corridors, ignoring the looks. The staff knew who I was. They didn't stop me. No one questioned the Devil when he carried a girl like she was holy.

My car door was already open. I placed her gently on the seat. She looked like she belonged nowhere. And somehow, in the middle of my storm, that made her belong with me.

The drive was quiet.

She didn’t speak. She just stared outside — eyes wide as if trying to memorize everything.

“Tum kabse... us ashram mein thi?” I asked softly.

She hesitated. Then, “Pata nahi. Mujhe yaad bhi nahi.”

I gripped the wheel tighter.

No name. No record. No complaint.

I had people run background checks. No documents. No mention. Even the priest denied her.

Like she was a myth.

But she wasn’t.

She was sitting beside me, in my car, her fingers gripping the edge of her dupatta like it was her only shield.

I reached my mansion just as the sky turned pale blue. My guards bowed. The gates opened. She shrank in her seat — unused to walls that moved for her.

I parked and stepped out. Before she could react, I opened her door, leaned in, and carried her again.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, panicking softly.

“I told you — you’re not walking till your leg heals.”

She didn’t protest.

Inside, my home was marble and silence. I walked past the grand staircase, ignoring the curious glances of staff. They knew not to question.

I entered the guest wing and placed her on the bed. The room had soft curtains, warm lights, and no cameras, with my room just beside hers. I made sure of that.

She sat upright, uncertain.

“This room is yours,” I said, switching back to Hindi.

She blinked. “Mere paas toh... kabhi khud ka kamra nahi tha.”

That one sentence crushed something in me.

I turned to leave, but paused.

“I’ll send food. And another pair of clothes. Tumhe agar kuch bhi chahiye... bas awaaz dena.”

She looked at me like she wasn’t sure if I was real.

Neither was I.

I had blood on my hands, kingdoms beneath my feet. I didn’t save people. I ended them.

But this girl?

This little moonlight of mine locked behind temple bars — she wasn’t something I could walk away from.

And maybe I didn’t want to.

That night, as she slept in a guest room of my mansion—with its chandelier and thick velvet curtains—I watched her from the doorway.

She curled into herself like someone who still thought she wasn’t safe.

And maybe... she wasn’t.

Not from this world.

And definitely not from me.

Because the longer I looked at her, the more one truth screamed inside me like a curse:

I know her.
Not from this life. But from something deeper. Older. Eternally unfinished.

And I wasn’t ready to lose her again.

Not this time.