Arthur's POV

I had only stepped out for sometime.

When I returned, the silence inside the house felt different—too still. A kind of stillness that immediately prickled the back of my neck.

"Meera?" I called gently, stepping past the door.

No answer.

I placed the small parcel I had picked up from the market onto the table and moved down the hallway, scanning every open space. 

"Meera?" I tried again, louder this time, but still careful—not to startle, not to accuse.

I checked the side room, the kitchen space, even the tiny storeroom that hadn't been opened in weeks.

Nothing.

A flicker of concern crawled into my chest.

She wouldn't leave the house... not in this state, not after last night.

I turned and caught sight of the staircase in the far end, half-bathed in light.

Terrace.

Without waiting another moment, I climbed quickly—each step landing with a sharper thud than the last. At the top, the door stood slightly open, the breeze tugging it with a soft creak.

And then I saw her.

She didn't hear me approach.

She was kneeling beside the old vessel , her fingers lightly brushing the water's surface where delicate white flowers floated. The sun poured over her shoulder, lighting the edge of her profile in a soft, burnished glow.

Her hand paused over the flowers, not disturbing them—just feeling.

And for the first time since I had met her, she looked at peace.

I didn't speak.

I simply stood there for a moment... watching.

There was something achingly human in that scene—barefoot on the stone, dressed in the cotton I had brought, her eyes half-closed as if remembering something far away.

The kind of moment that didn't need language.

She leaned in closer, cupping a palmful of water, letting it drip slowly back into the pot. The droplets glimmered, caught the sun—and I realized I was holding my breath.

Not for fear.

But for something else entirely.

Maybe it was relief.

Maybe wonder.

She looked fragile and strong all at once. Not the broken girl who had arrived at my doorstep last night, but someone holding onto beauty in a world that had tried to rip it away.

Still, I didn't move forward. I didn't speak her name.

This peace belonged to her.

And I... I was merely its witness.

She turned.

Her eyes met mine—and froze.

For half a second, she didn't move, as if she'd been caught somewhere she wasn't supposed to be. Her fingers tightened over the rim of the pot before letting go. Her back straightened, shoulders pulling back.

"Main bas... dekh rahi thi."
(I was just... observing.)

Her voice was low, guarded. Almost careful.

"I didn't mean to startle you," I said softly, not moving any closer. "I came home and didn't find you downstairs."

She nodded once, her eyes flicking away.
"Main... ghar dekh rahi thi. Bas."
(I was just looking around. That's all.)

A pause.

Her tone wasn't defensive. Just... honest.

I understood.

Her gaze shifted to the potted marigold near her feet.

"It's alright," I added. "You're free to walk anywhere you like here."

This time, her eyes lifted to meet mine.

For a moment, we stood there—nothing between us but sunlight and the scent of flowers.

I nodded slowly. "There's no need to fear me, okay?"

Another flicker in her eyes. Caution... softening.

I let the silence linger. Then, with a quiet breath, I gestured to the stairs behind me. "Shall we go down? Or would you like to stay here a bit longer?"

She hesitated—just for a second—and then stepped forward.

I didn't move. Just watched her as she crossed the terrace slowly and stood by the railing, the fading sunlight brushing her cheek. Her dupatta fluttered lightly in the breeze.

"You can stay up here if you'd like," I said gently, my voice lower now. "The air is nicer. The sun is going down soon... I'll go make something for us."

Her fingers curled slightly around the edge of the railing.

"Ji... vo, main bana du kuchh?" she asked softly.

But after what she'd been through, I didn't want her to lift a finger.

I simply shook my head, firm but kind.

I said. "no i will cook , and you take your time"

Without another word,

I descended the terrace stairs with slow steps, the fading sun casting long shadows across the bungalow's courtyard. The air held that peculiar hush only evenings in India could summon — a blend of heat settling into the earth and the faint rustle of neem leaves overhead.

She remained on the terrace, I knew — quiet, still. I could feel it even without turning back.

In the modest kitchen below, I rolled up my sleeves.

I lit the stove with practiced ease. The firewood snapped and crackled, and I waited, listening to the sound as though it might speak to me.

I wasn't a trained cook by any means, but I'd learned a thing or two over the years. Survival teaches you that. India teaches you that. 

It wasn't that I hadn't been provided with domestic staff.

I had been provided maids by the administration, of course. Proper domestic staff to keep the place running. But then I had gone away — three months out of the village on assignment. And in my absence, they'd been reassigned elsewhere.

It didn't bother me much then. I had grown used to doing things on my own.

Tomorrow, the maid would arrive.

I reached for the rice — a small tin of it sat near the shelf. Cleaned it, rinsed it, added a handful of lentils, and set them to boil with water, salt, and a pinch of turmeric. The spices were foreign to me once — now, oddly comforting. I remembered watching the local cook do it, and over time, my own hands had learned to mimic the motions.

There was something oddly calming about it — cooking for someone else. I'd never done it with this sort of intent before. Certainly not for a woman who barely spoke to me. And yet... her silence spoke more than words ever could.

I added a few cloves of garlic, slightly crushed, and cumin — the aroma was earthy, grounding. It filled the kitchen gently.

She hadn't asked for anything. 

But she was standing alone on my terrace, surrounded by the setting sun, and I couldn't let the moment pass without offering her something warm. Something human.

I didn't know what she'd think of it. Perhaps she wouldn't eat much. Perhaps she wouldn't eat at all.

Still, I stirred the pot slowly, watching it bubble — and for the first time in days, I felt... still.

The lentils were nearly done.

The kitchen had grown warmer, the scent of cumin and garlic lingering in the air like something soft and domestic — a word I hadn't associated with this house until now.

I wiped my hands on a cloth and glanced toward the staircase.

She hadn't come down.

A part of me expected to hear her footsteps, hesitant perhaps, or the rustle of her dupatta against the wall — but the silence held. Unbroken. She was still up there.

I hesitated, looking at the two simple bowls I had placed on the counter. One for her. One for me.

Would it be appropriate to bring it to her? I wasn't sure. I didn't know the customs well enough, didn't know what she'd been taught to expect from men — especially British men.

But then again... this wasn't about custom. Not anymore.

She hadn't come down because she didn't know if she should. Because in a world that had always told her when to speak, when to sit, when to eat — perhaps freedom still felt unfamiliar.

I couldn't change the world she came from. But I could carry one small bowl up a flight of stairs.

That much, I could do.

Carefully, I spooned the warm khichdi into the bowls — not elegant, but comforting. I took one in each hand and climbed the stairs slowly, the aroma rising with me.

The sky was darker now, tinged with violet. The air cooler.

She was still by the railing, arms folded, her back slightly to me. When she heard the stairs creak beneath my feet, she turned — just slightly — and I saw the flicker of surprise in her eyes.

I stopped a few steps away, offering the bowl gently.

"I thought you might like to eat here. The breeze is nicer up here," I said quietly. "And... I didn't want to interrupt whatever peace you'd found."

Her eyes dropped to the bowl in my hand, then flicked up to my face again. I didn't press her. Just waited. 

She sat cross-legged on the terrace floor, the bowl in her lap, her eyes lowered — as if even eating required permission.

The marigold plant beside her stirred softly in the breeze, its petals trembling as if it, too, was unsure of its place.

She lifted the first spoonful to her lips with hesitant grace. Then another. Slowly. Quietly. Her movements were neat, restrained — as though she were trying not to disturb the air around her.

I didn't speak.

I just watched.

Not out of intrusion. Not out of pity. But in remembrance.

Because even as the sky melted into deeper shades of blue behind her, my mind drifted back to the first time I had seen her — not like this. Not silent. Not shattered.

But alive.

It had been outside the village school, a few months ago. I remember the light first — how it filtered through the trees and caught in the dust around her. She had been crouched low, slate balanced on her knees, trying to write the English alphabet.

There had been fire in her eyes that day. A quiet rebellion — not loud, not angry, just a steady spark that said, I want to learn. She had traced the letters one by one, mouthing them under her breath like prayers.

She hadn't noticed me watching.

But I'd stood there longer than I should have — struck not just by her determination, but by the sheer joy she wore. As if knowledge wasn't just something she chased — it was something that made her feel free.

And now... this.

This girl — no, this woman — sitting silently beside me beneath the same sky, her eyes no longer lit with questions.

Her hands still moved with grace, yes — but there was no spark in them. No hunger. Just... quiet survival.

It did something to me.

Made the food taste different in my mouth. Made the air feel heavier in my lungs.

She didn't look at me once.

Not out of rudeness. But because, perhaps, some part of her no longer believed she deserved to be looked at with kindness.

"I wanted to ask how she ended up getting married so suddenly."

But I didn't.

Because perhaps silence was the only language she trusted anymore.

So I stayed beside her — the British officer and the broken girl — sharing a simple meal beneath the indigo sky, surrounded by the scent of marigolds and the ache of things we didn't yet have the words for.

She finished the last bite in silence.

I didn't press her with words. 

She rose quietly, adjusting the edge of her dupatta.

Without a word, we walked down the stairs together — leaving flowers and their scent  behind us swaying gently in the wind, as if holding the silence we left behind.

Last night, I gave her my room—my sanctuary. The one place I never let anyone step foot into. Not even my own men.

And yet, without hesitation, I opened the door for her.

It wasn't just the room I was giving her. It was something more... a silent promise, maybe.

That she was safe here.

The morning air was still cool when the orderly handed me a telegraph from the head office. The message was short but clear—I had to leave for urgent work, immediately.

As I folded the paper, I caught sight of her coming out of her room. Meera's footsteps were soft but steady. She paused for a moment in the doorway, eyes meeting mine.

I walked over to her gently. "Meera," I said softly, "I have to leave today. There's urgent work I must attend to in town."

She nodded silently, her gaze steady but unreadable.

"I wanted to tell you," I continued, "a servant will be coming today.she'll help take care of things here."

She said nothing, but I could see a faint flicker of relief in her eyes.

I gave her a small, reassuring smile. "Don't worry. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Then, with a quiet nod, I turned toward the door—already feeling the weight of leaving her behind, even if just for a little while.

As I stepped out into the morning light, the warm haze of the rising sun cast long shadows over the stone path. The air smelled faintly of dust and dew—an odd contrast, yet somehow fitting.

Every step I took toward the waiting horse felt heavier than it should. I'd left people behind before. Families. Posts. Even comrades.

But this was different.

I turned once—just once—before mounting the horse.

With a soft kick, I set off down the dusty trail toward the village outskirts. My official duties awaited—boundary reviews, map verifications, and tedious reports that could hardly compare to the quiet gravity of what I was leaving behind.

The hours passed in a blur of heat, ink, and voices speaking numbers.

But my mind wasn't in the maps or the discussions. It was back in Rajgarh, circling around a girl with quiet eyes and hands that moved like she was always afraid of breaking something.

By dusk, the air had thickened with heat and the scent of tobacco from the local office. I stood at the edge of the cantonment garden, looking up at the sky turning amber, wondering if she had eaten. If the new maid had arrived. If she was frightened to speak or if she had remained on the terrace, watching the same sun I now stood under.

She hadn't said much to me.

But something about her silence haunted me more than most people's screams ever had.

There was a reason I hadn't let anyone into that room of mine—not my servants, not my staff. That room had been mine alone. A place where I could shut the world out and pretend, for a while, that it didn't exist.

And now, she was in it.

Resting. Recovering. Breathing in its stillness.

Two days passed.

The work dragged on longer than expected—an inspection delay, some misfiled paperwork, a visiting official with too many questions and too little patience.

Every night, I returned to a dull, cramped guesthouse room in town. And every night, I lay awake wondering if she had slept in my bed without fear. If the maid had made her feel less alone. If the wind still carried the scent of marigolds through the bungalow's open windows.

On the third morning, I finished signing the final clearance document and handed it off with a firm nod. "I'll be leaving today," I told the officer in charge, already halfway out the door before he could ask for tea.

I didn't wait for a carriage.

I saddled my own horse.

The road back to Rajgarh was rougher than I remembered—dust kicking up in thick waves, birds darting through trees like they were fleeing from something unseen.

As if the air itself had shifted to welcome me back.

**********************

"Stay tuned! The next chapter will be uploaded tomorrow or the day after."

Please don't forget to vote and comment! ❤️

How did you find this part? I really hope you loved it!🫶

I'd love to hear your thoughts—any reviews or suggestions are most welcome.🎀

If you enjoyed reading, please tap that vote button!🥰

which part you liked  most ??

And do leave a comment to share your feelings about the story.

Also, don't forget to follow  me on instagram for more updates! ❤️