Ishq Mein Marjawan ~ Dil Ki Khubsoorti ~ Chap 19 on pg 5 - Page 5

Ravindra himself cut ties with them. He didn't quite understand back then what it would do.

Even Tara has been part of his story for long. She saw him through his stages of grief.

Tara has cast her curse. But He still remembered her name. How much will Arohi remember?

Chapter 17 (When Memory Refused to Die)

Singhania Mansion – Deep’s Room – Early Morning

The curtains fluttered as dawn crept in, pale and cold.

Deep sat on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched, breath uneven. The sand timer still lay on his desk—its grains unmoving, like time itself had paused to catch its breath.

He rubbed his forehead, claws scraping lightly against skin already roughened by fur, as if he could dig something out.

A feeling.
A name.
A memory.

“…Rooh,” he murmured again.

The word felt unfamiliar now, like trying to hold fog in his hands. It stirred something deep—something buried beneath layers of pain and bone and grief.

He stood abruptly and walked to the mirror.

A face stared back.

The structure was his—sharp cheekbones, familiar angles—but everything else was wrong. Skin scarred and darkened. Jaw warped. Fur creeping along the edges of his face. Horns curving back beneath the beanie he hadn’t yet removed.

Only the eyes were unchanged.

Hazel. Haunted.

Empty.

A flash—

A treehouse under stars.
Laughter echoing through gully lanes.
A girl in pigtails throwing guava seeds from a terrace.

The image flickered—then vanished.

He gripped the mirror’s edge, claws digging into the wood.

“What the hell is happening to me?”

Singhania Mansion – Private Wing – Late Morning

Deep moved through the unused wing of the mansion like a caged animal.

Curtains drawn. Doors locked. Mirrors covered.

He paced the length of the room, heavy boots thudding against marble, breath coming harsh and uneven. He tried push-ups—failed. Tried lifting weights left behind from another life—snapped the grip clean off.

Frustration clawed its way up his throat.

He growled low, sound tearing out of him before he could stop it.

Silence swallowed it whole.

Somewhere between the walls of this house and the body he no longer recognised, something had gone missing.

And he didn’t even know what.

Montage – Restlessness Growing (In Isolation)

• Deep tearing through old journals in his room—pages ripped out, burned, or left blank where something should’ve been.
• Sitting alone in the dark, scrolling endlessly through his phone—faces, filters, perfection—feeling nothing but revulsion.
• Standing at the window, rain streaking down the glass, sensing it should remind him of someone… but failing to grasp who.

Then one night—

He dreamed.

Dream Sequence – Unknown Memoryscape

A field of stars.

A crooked tree platform.

A rusted box.

A girl’s voice, soft and urgent:

“Promise me you won’t forget.”

Deep turned. He couldn’t see her face—only her outline.

Her eyes shimmered like broken reflections in a well.

“I don’t know who you are,” he whispered.

She stepped back.

The stars went out.

The tree splintered.

The voice faded.

“You already have…”

Singhania Mansion – Deep’s Room – Middle of the Night

He gasped awake, claws digging into the mattress, breath tearing from his throat.

This time, he didn’t reach for the sand timer.

He reached for his phone.

His fingers typed a name into the search bar.

“Rooh.”

No results.

He frowned. Tried again.

“R… A… R… O…”

Nothing.

The ache in his chest deepened—low, relentless.

Somewhere out there was a song he didn’t remember learning, a girl he didn’t remember loving, and a promise he couldn’t recall breaking.

And it was driving him mad.

Singhania Mansion – Study – Same Morning

Ravindra entered quietly and froze at the sight of Deep rifling through drawers, papers scattered across the desk.

“Beta?”

Deep looked up, eyes wild beneath the shadow of his hood. “Where are the old photographs, Papa?”

“What photographs?”

“From when I was a kid. With that other family. The Kashyaps.”

Ravindra went still.

“There are no such photos, Deep.”

“Yes, there are,” Deep snapped. “I remember—”

His voice faltered.

Did he?

He turned away sharply. “I don’t feel like myself.”

Ravindra placed a hand on his shoulder—hesitant, careful not to touch claw or horn.

“Sometimes forgetting is a blessing.”

Deep didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t believe it.

Afternoon – Kashyap Gully – Old Town

The streets hadn’t changed.

Rickety balconies leaned too close. Children ran barefoot through narrow lanes. The air still smelled of incense, frying pakoras, and yesterday’s rain.

Deep walked slowly, hood up, scarf tight around his distorted jaw, sunglasses shielding eyes that felt too exposed.

His heart beat wildly—like it knew the place better than his mind did.

A rusted bench.

Two faded initials carved into the wood:

D + A

His breath hitched.

He moved on.

Kashyap House – Courtyard

Aarohi wasn’t home.

But her wall of memories was.

Photos fluttered in the breeze. Stick figures on crumpled pages. Scribbled names. A broken slingshot hanging from a nail.

Deep’s gloved fingers hovered over a dusty photograph—two kids, ice cream smeared on their faces, sitting on a cracked bench.

He touched it—

FLASH.

Her laughter.
His voice.
Treehouse. Rain. Guava.
The word Rooh whispered like a lullaby.

The memory slammed into him with such force that he staggered back, claws scraping stone.

Outside – The Courtyard Gate

Aarohi returned from her delivery round, jumpsuit dusted at the knees, pigtails loosened from the day’s heat.

She stopped.

Deep stood just beyond the gate—hooded, scarfed, unmoving.

She couldn’t read his face.

Only his eyes.

Something about the way he looked at her—like she was both a mystery and a home he almost remembered—made her heart skip.

Finally, he spoke, voice hoarse and careful:

“Do we… know each other?”

Aarohi staggered.

Not forward. Not backward. Just… inward.

Her breath caught sharply in her chest, fingers curling against the rough seam of her jumpsuit pocket as if she were trying to anchor herself. For a split second, the world tilted—the sounds of the street dulling, the light thinning, the air pressing too close to her skin.

Deep took an instinctive step forward.

“Hey—” His voice stopped halfway.

Aarohi lifted her head.

She blinked once. Twice.

The sharpness in her eyes softened into something quieter—confused, but not afraid. She steadied herself, one hand resting against the gate, the other pushing a loose strand back into place as her pigtails brushed her shoulders.

“I’m fine,” she said, almost surprised by her own steadiness.

Deep searched her face desperately—looking for recognition, alarm, pain.

What he found unsettled him more.

Calm.

She looked at him again, properly this time.

Not like someone staring at a stranger.

Like someone standing before a thought she almost remembered.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

The question landed like a blow.

Not Who are you?
Not Why are you here?

Just concern. Uncomplicated. Real.

Deep swallowed. His throat felt raw. “I—yeah.”

Her gaze drifted, briefly, to his eyes. Lingered. As if they tugged at something deep inside her chest. She frowned—not in fear, but mild frustration.

“I don’t know why,” she said slowly, more to herself than to him, “but my head feels… empty. Like when you walk into a room and forget why you went there.”

Deep’s hands clenched at his sides.

So it had worked.

Partially.

She shook her head, dismissing the thought. “Probably heat. Or hunger.” Then, almost casually, she added, “You were saying something?”

Deep stared at her.

She waited. Patient. Open.

He realised then—she wasn’t pretending. She wasn’t hiding confusion.

She genuinely didn’t know what she’d lost.

And yet… she hadn’t stepped away.

“No,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t.”

A beat passed.

“Well,” she said, adjusting the strap of her bag against her shoulder, “I should go. I still have deliveries left.”

She took a step—and then hesitated.

Turned back.

“I don’t know why,” she said again, softer now, “but you don’t feel… dangerous.”

The word sliced through him.

She offered a small, apologetic smile. “That probably sounded strange.”

“No,” Deep replied hoarsely. “It didn’t.”

She nodded, as if that settled something. Then she walked past him, through the gate, disappearing down the lane—pigtails bouncing lightly with each step.

Deep stayed where he was.

Because something far worse than forgetting had just happened.

She remembered how to trust him.

But not why.

The Choice

The alley was quiet, save for the distant clang of utensils and a scooter coughing to life.

Deep leaned against the cracked wall, breath uneven, heart pounding against ribs that felt too fragile to contain it.

She didn’t remember.

Not the bridge.
Not the rain.
Not the scarf.
Not his eyes.

And yet—

He closed his eyes.

He could still hear her voice from moments ago.

Are you okay?

Concern without context.
Care without memory.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted her at the end of the lane—kneeling beside her cycle, jumpsuit streaked with dust, one pigtail slipping loose as she struggled with the chain.

Without thinking, he moved.

“Here,” he said, crouching a safe distance away. “It’s just stuck.”

She looked up, surprised—but not wary.

“Oh. Thanks.”

He fixed the chain quickly, efficiently. Muscle memory. Silence settling comfortably between them.

“You do this often?” she asked.

He nodded. “Enough.”

She smiled faintly. “Figures.”

When he finished, he wiped his hands on his jeans and stood.

She stood too.

For a moment, they just looked at each other.

“I don’t remember where I’ve seen you,” she admitted quietly. “But… I feel like I shouldn’t forget you.”

Deep’s chest tightened painfully.

“You don’t have to,” he said gently.

And then—because he loved her enough now to choose restraint—

He stepped back.

“I’ll see you around,” he added.

She hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah.”

As he walked away, Deep felt it settle inside him—solid, heavy, irreversible.

A decision.

If remembering meant pain…
If truth meant danger…

Then he would stay unnamed.

Unclaimed.

Unremembered.

For her.

Celestial Watchpoint – Between Memory and Moonlight

Tara felt it like a knife to her ribs.

The flicker. The connection. The beginning of undoing.

“No,” she whispered. “No. It’s too soon.”

The Heart Jar pulsed—uneven, warning.

Far beneath the stars, a beast who had lost everything began to remember—while Aarohi forgot the boy, but her heart still recognized the beast.

------

To be continued.

Now that Deep wants to remember, Ravindra wants him to forget. Why is that?

What did Tara do just now? Is she going to harm Arohi? Eliminate her existence?

Chapter 18 (What the Body Knows)

Aarohi woke up knowing she had forgotten something important—and trusting herself enough not to panic.

The ceiling fan creaked above her, slow and uneven. Morning light filtered in through the half-curtains, turning dust into floating sparks. Aarohi lay still for a moment, listening to the sounds of the house waking up—the clink of a steel tumbler, a pressure cooker sighing, someone coughing in the next room.

Normal.

She sat up and rubbed her eyes.

The feeling was still there.

Not fear. Not confusion.

Absence.

Like waking up with a word on the tip of her tongue and deciding not to chase it.

She swung her legs off the bed and stood, stretching her arms overhead. Her body moved easily, confidently—no dizziness, no weakness. Whatever had happened yesterday hadn’t left a mark on her physically.

That, somehow, made it stranger.

In the bathroom mirror, she paused.

Her reflection stared back, familiar and steady. She leaned closer, studying her own eyes as if expecting them to tell her something she’d missed.

“Okay,” she murmured. “We’re fine.”

She tied her hair into pigtails, fingers moving on instinct, the rhythm automatic. Jumpsuit. Watch. Keys. Bag slung over her shoulder.

On the desk, her sketchpad lay open.

She frowned.

The page showed faint impressions—erased lines pressed too hard, the ghost of a drawing she couldn’t see anymore.

She ran her thumb over the paper.

A quiet pressure bloomed behind her ribs.

Not sadness.

Recognition.

She closed the sketchpad without understanding why and tucked it into her bag.

Outside, the lane smelled of damp earth and last night’s rain. Aarohi wheeled her cycle out, adjusting the bell absently before mounting it.

She pedalled toward the main road, eyes scanning shop shutters and doorways without knowing what she was looking for.

At the corner tea stall, she slowed.

Her foot brushed the ground.

Nothing had changed there—the same rusted kettle, the same chipped cups, the same radio playing too loudly.

And yet—

Her gaze lingered.

Her chest tightened for half a second, sharp and inexplicable.

She shook it off, irritated at herself. “Get a grip.”

She cycled on.

Midway down the road, she stopped abruptly.

Not because she saw something.

Because she didn’t.

Her hand tightened around the handle.

She turned, slowly, scanning the lane behind her.

Empty.

No hooded figure.
No familiar eyes.
No presence leaning quietly against a wall.

A strange disappointment washed through her.

She exhaled, steadying herself.

“That’s ridiculous,” she muttered.

Still, as she pedalled away, she felt it again—that soft, unshakeable certainty.

Someone had been there.

Not yesterday.

Not even recently.

But always.

And somewhere far from Kashyap Gully, behind locked doors and covered mirrors, a beast stood staring at the same absence—remembering enough for both of them.

Singhania Mansion – Deep’s Room – Late Morning

Deep stood in the center of the room, unmoving.

The sand timer lay on the desk.

One grain had fallen.

Just one.

He watched it like it might change its mind.

Memory had returned in pieces—not like a flood, but like pressure. Images surfaced when he didn’t ask for them. Sounds without context. Feelings without safety.

A girl laughing with guava-stained fingers.
A promise whispered under neem leaves.
A name that hurt to hold.

Rooh.

He pressed his palm to the wall, claws biting into plaster until it cracked.

So Tara had lied.

Not completely—but enough.

He remembered now.

Enough to know what remembering would do to her.

Deep turned toward the mirror.

It was covered.

He didn’t uncover it.

He didn’t need to see the beast to know what he was.

He reached for the scarf on the chair and wrapped it higher than usual, careful, deliberate—an act of control rather than concealment.

The phone on the desk vibrated.

A message from his manager. Missed calls. Contracts waiting.

Another life.

He ignored it.

Instead, he opened the drawer beneath the desk and pulled out a folded scrap of paper—creased so many times it was soft as cloth.

He didn’t open it.

He already knew what was written there.

Promise me you won’t forget.

He exhaled slowly.

“For you,” he whispered to the empty room. “I will.”

The sand timer clicked.

Another grain fell.

Deep froze.

So this was the rule now.

Memory in exchange for time.

He closed his fist around the locket at his chest, grounding himself in its familiar weight.

Then he sat.

Not to plan.

Not to chase answers.

To wait.

If he went back to Kashyap Gully now—
If he stood at her gate again—
If he let her remember fully—

The curse would choose.

And it would not choose mercy.

He stood, crossed the room, and locked the door from the inside.

Distance was not abandonment.

It was protection.

He leaned his forehead against the cool wood and closed his eyes.

“I’m still here,” he murmured. “Just not where you can see me.”

Outside, somewhere beyond walls and memory, Aarohi moved through her day unaware of the choice being made for her.

And far above, something ancient watched the sand fall—
counting what love was willing to lose.

Kashyap Gully – Early Evening

The power went out without warning.

No flicker. No gradual dimming.
Just darkness swallowing the lane whole.

A collective groan rose from nearby houses. Someone cursed. A child cried. The radio at the tea stall cut off mid-song.

Aarohi braked sharply, her cycle wobbling beneath her.

“Great,” she muttered.

She glanced up at the sky. Thick clouds had rolled in unnoticed, heavy and low. The air smelled charged—like rain waiting for permission.

She dismounted and pushed the cycle forward, careful now. Without the streetlights, the potholes became traps.

Halfway down the lane, the cycle jerked violently.

The chain slipped.

“Of course,” she sighed.

She crouched, fingers probing blindly, trying to guide the chain back into place. Her torch flickered once, then died completely.

Behind her, something shifted.

Footsteps. Measured. Familiar.

She didn’t turn immediately.

“I’ve got it,” she said, mostly to herself.

The footsteps stopped.

A presence settled near her—not looming, not intrusive. Just there.

“I can see better in the dark,” a voice said quietly.

Her shoulders relaxed before she could stop them.

“Oh,” she replied. “You.”

Deep crouched a careful distance away, scarf high, hood casting shadows over his face. His eyes caught the faint ambient glow from a nearby window.

He reached out slowly. “May I?”

She nodded.

Their hands didn’t touch.

He fixed the chain in silence, movements efficient, practiced. Aarohi watched him work, a strange sense of déjà vu tugging at her chest.

“You do this like you’ve done it a thousand times,” she said.

He paused—just for a fraction of a second.

“Maybe I have.”

The first drop of rain hit the ground.

Then another.

Then the sky gave up entirely.

Aarohi stood abruptly. “I should get home before this turns into a flood.”

She mounted the cycle.

Deep didn’t move.

The rain intensified, blurring the edges of the lane. Thunder rumbled overhead.

Her cycle slipped.

She stumbled—caught herself—but not before the realisation hit.

The road ahead had flooded already.

She exhaled sharply. “I can’t ride through that.”

Deep looked at the waterlogged stretch, then back at her.

“My place is closer,” he said.

She hesitated.

Not fear. Calculation.

“Just till the rain eases,” he added, quickly. “You don’t have to come inside. The veranda’s covered.”

She studied his eyes.

The same quiet steadiness.

“Okay,” she said.

They walked.

Not touching. Not rushed. Sharing the narrow space of the lane as rain poured around them.

When they reached the abandoned side-wing of the Singhania property, Deep unlocked the veranda gate and stepped aside.

“Here,” he said.

They stood under the shelter, rain hammering the tin roof so loudly it swallowed conversation.

Aarohi leaned her cycle against the wall and wiped rain from her face.

“This rain came out of nowhere,” she said.

Deep nodded. “It does that.”

Silence settled—not awkward. Just present.

She hugged her arms loosely, watching the rain curtain the world beyond the veranda.

“You live alone?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Another pause.

“I don’t know why,” she said suddenly, frowning slightly, “but I feel like I’ve stood in the rain with you before.”

Deep’s breath caught.

She didn’t notice.

She was watching the rain.

“Probably imagination,” she added lightly. “Everything feels strange today.”

He said nothing.

Because memory was already pressing against the walls of his mind—
not images yet, not names—

but the certainty of shared weather.

The rain slowed.

Neither of them moved.

For the first time since he had chosen distance, Deep realised something essential:

He could avoid her.

He could hide from her.

But the world—

The world was already arranging ways to bring them back into the same space.

And it would not stop.

-----

To be continued.

Chapter 19 (Where the Body Led)

Kashyap Gully – Over the Next Few Days

They didn’t decide to start spending time together.

It just… happened.

Aarohi’s delivery route shifted when one shop closed early. Deep appeared at the corner without explanation and walked beside her without comment. One evening became two. Two became habit.

Sometimes he fixed her cycle chain.
Sometimes he carried a bag when it got too heavy.
Sometimes they just walked—quiet, unhurried, matching pace without trying.

They spoke about small things.

Which lanes flooded first.
Which tea stall watered down its milk.
Which dogs were friendly if you ignored them.

Nothing important.

Everything familiar.

Deep noticed things before she did.

When a street vendor packed up early, he guided her down another lane without thinking. When she hesitated at a crossroads, unsure which turn to take, his feet moved first.

Each time, he froze afterward—heart thudding.

“I don’t know why I know that,” he’d say.

Aarohi would shrug. “Feels right.”

That answer always unsettled him more than questions would have.

One Afternoon – An Unplanned Detour

The sun sat low, dull and amber, when Aarohi checked her list again.

“There’s one more address,” she said, squinting. “But this lane doesn’t exist anymore.”

Deep glanced at the paper. Then ahead—toward a narrow path half-hidden behind a rusted gate and overgrown creepers.

“It used to,” he said.

She looked at him. “You’re sure?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes.”

They walked through the gate.

The noise of the city softened almost immediately, like sound had been turned down a notch. The path curved inward, earth replacing concrete, grass brushing their ankles.

Aarohi slowed.

“This place feels… strange,” she said.

Deep felt it too.

Not unfamiliar.

The opposite.

The path opened into a small clearing.

And they stopped.

A single tree stood at the center—old, wide-limbed, its branches heavy with clusters of pale, cottony flowers. The air smelled faintly sweet, faintly green.

The wind shifted.

And suddenly—

The flowers let go.

Soft white puffs drifted down like slow snow, catching sunlight as they fell. Some burst mid-air, scattering fine threads that shimmered briefly before dissolving.

Aarohi’s breath caught.

“Oh,” she whispered.

The wind blew again.

More flowers fell.

Without thinking, she stepped forward.

Then she laughed.

Not loudly. Not carefully.

She spun once, then again—arms lifted, jumpsuit twisting with her movement, pigtails flying loose as the white petals clung to her hair and shoulders.

She circled beneath the tree, feet light, movements instinctive, joyful in a way that didn’t ask permission.

Deep forgot to breathe.

Because his body remembered before his mind could stop it.

This was the place.

He knew the way the ground dipped near the roots.
The way the light filtered through the leaves.
The way laughter sounded here—uncontained.

A sharp pressure bloomed behind his eyes.

A flash—

Two children running.
White flowers sticking to hair.
A girl spinning until she fell dizzy into grass.
His voice shouting, “You’ll get caught!”
Her laughter answering, “Worth it!”

Deep staggered back a step.

Aarohi stopped spinning and turned to him, breathless.

“Why does this feel like…” She faltered, frowning. “Like coming back somewhere.”

He swallowed hard.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice rough. “But I think we’ve been here before.”

She studied his face—really looked this time.

Not the scarf. Not the shadows.

His eyes.

The wind blew once more.

Flowers fell again.

Aarohi smiled—soft, knowing without knowing why.

“Well,” she said, stepping back under the tree, “then it’s rude not to enjoy it.”

She spun again—slower now.

Deep didn’t stop her.

He stood at the edge of the clearing, heart pounding, memories clawing at the walls of his mind.

This wasn’t magic meant to harm.

This was memory refusing to stay buried.

And for the first time since the curse took hold, Deep understood something terrifying and beautiful:

He wasn’t remembering her because he wanted to.

He was remembering her because being with her made forgetting impossible.

The flowers kept falling.

And somewhere, far beyond rules and curses, something old and gentle watched—

and waited.

The Name That Survived

The flowers slowed.

Not stopped—just fewer now, drifting lazily as the wind settled into something gentler.

Aarohi stood beneath the tree, breath uneven from spinning, white cottony threads clinging to her pigtails and the shoulders of her jumpsuit. She brushed one away absently, smiling to herself, unaware of the storm breaking just a few steps behind her.

Deep’s vision blurred.

Not from tears.

From collision.

The clearing folded inward, the present bending under the weight of something old forcing its way through.

The smell hit first.

Damp earth. Neem leaves. Tamarind somewhere nearby.

Then sound—

Laughter. Hers. Younger. Unrestrained.

Then—

Him.

Not the beast.

The boy.

Barefoot. Dusty knees. Slingshot hanging from his wrist.

The memory slammed into place with brutal clarity.

The same tree.
The same falling flowers.
Her spinning until she fell dizzy into the grass, arms flung wide.
Him shouting, “Stop! You’ll fall!”
Her laughing harder. Always harder.

And then—

Her voice, close. Certain. Soft in a way she only ever was with him.

“Deep, look!”

His chest seized.

His claws curled inward painfully.

The world steadied.

The memory didn’t fade.

It anchored.

He took one unsteady step forward.

Aarohi turned, sensing the shift even before she saw his face.

“Hey,” she said lightly. “You okay?”

Deep opened his mouth.

The name was already there.

Not forced.
Not searched for.
Not remembered.

Recognised.

“…Rooh.”

The sound fell between them.

Small.

Unassuming.

Final.

Aarohi froze.

Not in fear.

In shock so quiet it didn’t move her body—only her breath.

Her smile faded slowly, replaced by something raw and undefended.

“That’s…” she whispered. “That’s how my father calls me.”

Deep nodded once, barely holding himself together.

“I know.”

Her pulse quickened. She touched her chest unconsciously, fingers pressing where the locket should have been—but wasn’t.

“How do you know that?” she asked.

He didn’t answer.

Because far above—

Celestial Watchpoint – Beyond Time

The Heart Jar convulsed.

Not a tremor.

A pound.

Once.

Twice.

Then faster—each beat brighter than the last.

Tara gasped, clutching her wrist as the jar burned hot against her skin.

“No,” she whispered. “No—no—no—”

The glow inside surged, shifting from controlled warmth to something wild, radiant, alive.

“That name,” she hissed. “That name was sealed.”

The jar pulsed again—hard enough to crack the glass slightly.

Tara staggered back, terror blooming across her face.

“He’s remembering,” she breathed. “Not the curse. Not the pain.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Her.”

The stars around her flickered violently.

For the first time since she had taken his heart, Tara understood the truth she had spent centuries denying:

The heart had never been asleep.

It had only been waiting.

And love—

Love had just woken it up.

After the Name

The clearing didn’t change.

The tree still stood.
The last few cottony flowers still drifted down, slower now, hesitant, as if unsure whether they were still needed.

But something between them had shifted its weight.

Aarohi swallowed.

“That’s… strange,” she said quietly. “No one uses that name anymore other than my father.”

Deep didn’t look away from her.

“I know,” he said again, softer this time. Not insistence. Not claim. Just truth.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of her jumpsuit. She felt suddenly aware of her own breathing, of the way her heart was beating faster than it should have been.

“You didn’t say it like a nickname,” she said. “You said it like… it belonged to me.”

Deep’s jaw tightened beneath the scarf.

“I didn’t mean to,” he replied.

“But you did.”

She took a small step closer—not invading his space, not cautious either. Curious. Drawn.

“When you said it,” she continued slowly, “it felt like something inside me answered. Not a memory. Just… recognition.”

She let out a short, nervous laugh. “That sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?”

“No,” Deep said immediately. Too immediately.

That made her pause.

She searched his eyes again—those eyes that never felt new, no matter how hard she tried to convince herself otherwise.

“Do you know me?” she asked.

The question was simple.

The answer was not.

Deep inhaled, steadying himself the way he had learned to steady storms.

“I know how you laugh when you forget to stop,” he said carefully.
“I know you always spin until you’re dizzy.”
“I know you pretend you don’t mind scraped knees, but you do.”

Aarohi’s breath caught.

“That’s not—” She stopped. Tried again. “That’s not knowing someone. That’s… remembering them.”

Silence pressed in.

The wind stirred, lifting the last flowers into the air again, but neither of them looked up.

Deep took a step back.

Just one.

Enough to remind himself where he was. What he was.

“I shouldn’t have said your name,” he said quietly. “I won’t again.”

Aarohi frowned. “Why?”

Because saying it woke something that won’t go back to sleep.
Because saying it made you real to me again.

Instead, he said, “Because some things come back with a cost.”

She considered that. Really considered it.

Then she shook her head, a stubborn little gesture that felt achingly familiar to him.

“I don’t feel scared,” she said. “I feel… steady.”

That was worse.

She looked around the clearing once more, at the tree, the trampled grass, the white threads clinging to her shoes.

“I think I used to come here,” she said slowly. “Not today. Not recently. But… a long time ago.”

Deep’s claws bit into his palms.

“I think so too,” he admitted.

She met his gaze again, something unspoken passing between them—an agreement without words.

“Then,” she said gently, “maybe we don’t have to understand it yet.”

She stepped past him, toward the path they’d entered from, then paused and glanced back.

“Will you walk with me?” she asked. Not pleading. Not testing.

Just asking.

Deep hesitated.

Then nodded.

They left the clearing side by side.

Behind them, the tree shed one final flower, which drifted down and settled where they had stood.

Far Above – Celestial Watchpoint

The Heart Jar pounded again.

Harder.

Tara cried out, gripping her wrist as the glass burned against her skin.

“No,” she whispered, panic splintering her voice. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen.”

The glow inside the jar surged—warm, insistent, alive.

Mayank appeared beside her, expression grave.

“He didn’t remember because of magic,” he said quietly. “He remembered because of proximity.”

Tara shook her head violently. “I sealed the memories. I broke the anchors.”

“And yet,” Mayank replied, “you left the strongest one untouched.”

She froze.

“What?” she demanded.

“Choice,” he said. “You can erase memory. You cannot erase where a soul leans when it feels safe.”

The jar pulsed again—brighter now.

Tara backed away, dread coiling tight in her chest.

“If he stays near her,” she whispered, “I lose him.”

Her gaze hardened.

“Then I won’t let them stay near each other.”

She turned toward the darker shelves of the Watchpoint—toward spells not meant to separate memory…

…but to separate paths.

Below, unaware of the storm sharpening above them, Deep and Aarohi walked back toward the city—
not touching, not rushing—

but no longer walking alone.

------

To be continued.