AUTHOR'S POV

Arthur walked toward the heavy wooden desk, his steps measured and deliberate, boots pressing softly into the old, muted rug that lay sprawled across the stone floor like a fading story.

The study smelled faintly of old paper and ink—an aroma that lingered like memory itself. Near the tall wooden window, sunlight filtered through the narrow glass panes, casting a warm, golden lattice across the polished desk. The table was made of heavy oak, its surface smooth yet deeply grained with the stories of time. It held a quiet dignity, untouched by the clamor of the outside world.

On its surface rested a scroll of parchment, slightly curled at the edges, as if waiting patiently to be written upon. Beside it sat a glimmering brass inkpot with a feathered quill—its white plume catching the afternoon light like a plume of soft snow. The nib, dark with dried ink, glistened faintly in the sun's touch.

To the side, an orderly stack of leather-bound books leaned against a carved wooden column of the wall, their spines aged but proud, titles embossed in gold and dulled crimson. A brass candleholder stood nearby, though unlit, its design intricate and regal. A creeping plant peeked from behind the books, one of its leaves brushing against the wood like a quiet intruder in the stillness.

Outside the window, faint shadows of leaves danced in the wind, but inside, the room held its breath—still, solemn, and waiting for words to be born.

Arthur moved one of the tall chairs closer, its wooden legs dragging faintly against the floor. It was simple but finely made, its carved backrest catching glints of light. He set it beside his own and turned to Meera with quiet encouragement.

"It's ink and its feather ," he said, his voice soft but clear. "I'll draw first. Then you'll try to write on this paper. Okay?"

Meera hesitated.

She stepped forward hesitantly. As she lowered herself onto the wooden chair he had pulled for her, her dupatta slipped slightly from one shoulder. She quickly adjusted it with nervous fingers. The chair beneath her felt too polished, too upright. Her gaze fell on the ink bottle placed neatly on the desk, its glass glinting faintly in the golden light. The metal nib resting beside it looked too refined, too precise—like a foreign tool meant for someone else's hands.

Arey yaar, she sighed inwardly.
Mujhe toh sirf neem ki tehni se likhna aata hai... vo bhi thik se nahi.
(I only know how to write with a neem twig... and that too not properly.)
Par ye shyahi se...? Mene toh kabhi likha hi nahi isse...
(But with this ink...? I've never even written with it.)

Her gaze lowered to the paper and back to Arthur's calm face.

Ab kya karu? Kaise batau?
(What do I do now? How do I even tell him?)

A nervous breath escaped her lips.

Ek kaam karti hoon... jese ye gora sahib karega, waise hi karungi main bhi.
(Alright. I'll do what this gora sahib does. I'll copy him exactly.)

Arthur was already pulling a sheet of paper toward himself. With a steady hand, he uncorked the ink and dipped the feather nib into it, letting the black liquid coat it with a rich sheen. His fingers were long and elegant, each motion practiced, precise.

(author - vo mujhe inki story aage bdhane ke liye purane jmane ke ink and feather use krna pda instead of metal nib pen🙈)

Meera watched.

The way he wrote was nothing short of mesmerizing.

Seated at the desk, Arthur dipped the sharp nib into the inkpot with steady fingers. His hand moved slowly, precisely—each stroke smooth as if he were painting silence onto paper. The letters unfurled with grace, like quiet waves tracing the shore. The paper beneath his hand didn't resist; it welcomed him, as though it had known his touch all along.

Meera sat beside him, her eyes locked onto the movement of his hand. There was something rhythmic, something almost musical about the way he curved each letter. The room was still—just the scratch of ink, the soft golden light through the window, and the soft creak of the chair beneath her.

After writing a few words, he glanced at her and then turned the page slightly in her direction. "Take this," he said gently, offering her the ink-dipped feather pen. "Try."

Meera hesitated. Her hand lifted slowly, fingers brushing against the pen's stem. It felt too elegant, too delicate for her unsure hands—cold, slippery, and unfamiliar. She adjusted her grip once, twice, trying to remember how he had held it.

She dipped the nib into the ink carefully, copying the angle he had used. But as she brought it to the paper, the ink spilled too quickly—too fast.

A black blot bloomed on the page.

She flinched.

Still, she pressed forward, drawing the nib along the page the way he had done. But the paper did not respond as it had to him. It resisted—her hand trembled slightly, the nib catching, dragging, leaving behind uneven curves and jagged stutters. What Arthur had written looked like language. What she created looked like broken stems—letters that never fully bloomed.

ARTHUR'S POV

I leaned slightly forward, resting my elbow on the edge of the desk as I watched her.

She held the pen like it was a foreign creature—something that might either whisper secrets or bite. Her fingers trembled ever so slightly, and her brow was furrowed in that same quiet concentration I had seen the day she stood outside the classroom window.

The way she tried to draw the letters—it wasn't writing, not quite. She moved the nib across the paper as if sketching patterns in sand. The ink blotted in places, stumbled in others. A thick curl where there should've been a light curve. A crooked loop that hesitated mid-air. I could tell she was trying... really trying.

And for a moment, I forgot everything else.

Her wrist moved with caution, lips parted in a breath she didn't know she was holding. Her dupatta slipped again, barely clinging to one shoulder as she leaned forward just a little more, lost in her own effort.

Then came a line so wobbly it looked like a fallen twig.

A breath caught in my throat—half amusement, half something far gentler.

I bit back a smile.

She was unaware of me now, her full focus on the paper, the pen, the frustrating swirl of black that refused to obey. Her fingers were smudged, the nib scraped too hard. Another mistake bloomed onto the sheet—another broken vine of a letter. But she didn't stop. That quiet stubbornness in her... it stirred something strange and warm in me.

She wasn't giving up. She was teaching herself how to hold the wind with bare hands.

God, I almost laughed. But I didn't. I wouldn't.

Not when she was trying so hard. Not when she looked so small and serious at my desk, as if the world might change with one perfect curve of ink.

I shifted slightly in my seat and said nothing.

Let her try.

She looked up at me again.

This time, it wasn't curiosity or hesitation in her eyes—it was frustration. Raw, delicate, and utterly endearing. Her brows were pinched together, her lips parted slightly as if she was about to say something, but stopped herself. The tip of her nose had a faint smudge of ink, and her fingers—trembling slightly—still clutched the quill like it was both a weapon and a puzzle she couldn't solve.

Her eyes searched mine, silently asking, What am I doing wrong?
Or maybe... Why can't I do this?

And then—she gave me that look.

That soft, helpless expression. Her large eyes glistened with unshed frustration, but they held no anger. Just confusion. Hope. And an almost childlike trust that did something to my insides—melted something I didn't know existed.

In that quiet, flickering moment, she had no idea how powerful she was.
And I... I was completely undone.

I swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of how loud my heartbeat felt inside the still room. My throat tightened. I had to say something—anything—to pull myself back together.

I cleared my throat and managed a smile.
"Okay... dont look me like that" I said softly, my voice laced with something between teasing and surrender. "I'll teach you  in different style."

She blinked at me, unsure.

I reached out, slowly—giving her time—my palm open and waiting.
"Give me your hand."

She hesitated.

For a moment, she didn't move at all. Her gaze flicked from my eyes to my hand, then back again. The pause felt like an entire minute. And then—so gently I barely felt it—her ink-stained fingers slid into my palm.

Warm.

Delicate.

Trusting.

I took her hand like it was something sacred. Then, almost instinctively, I reached for her chair and pulled it closer—closer than I probably should have. Our knees nearly touched. Our shoulders brushed. She sucked in a quiet breath, but didn't pull away.

My other hand moved to guide hers around the pen again—our fingers now entwined. She was still holding the quill awkwardly, but this time, I was there with her. The feather brushed against my wrist as we moved together.

The ink shimmered faintly on the parchment below us, untouched, waiting.

"Just follow my lead," I whispered, my voice lower than I intended, hushed like we were sharing a secret.

We began to move—slow, careful strokes. Her hand beneath mine, still unsure, still shaking. I guided her through the first curves of a letter. She breathed unevenly, and I could feel the way her body leaned into mine, just slightly.

And in that moment—so close I could see the fine hairs on her skin, the flicker of her lashes, the tiny rise of her chest with every breath—I forgot about the letters, the ink, the page.

All I could see were her lips—soft, parted in concentration.
All I could hear was the quiet thrum of her breath.
All I could feel was the warmth of her fingers in mine.

There was something dangerously intimate about the closeness—something that made me want to freeze time. To stay right here, guiding her through every stroke, every shape.

But I knew—this wasn't just about teaching her to write.

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