As always, Bhairava made his way to the rooftop. It was his usual spot—open sky, soft breeze, and a little distance from everything below. He liked the quiet up there.
Aarya followed a few minutes later. Her steps were slow, uncertain. She had come to the rooftop too, but not just for the breeze or the silence.
She saw Bhairava standing near the edge, looking out over the college grounds. Her heart thudded in her chest, not from exertion, but from the memory of yesterday.
"I almost said it," she thought. "I almost told him."
She had tried to say something, tried to tell Bhairava how she felt. But the words had tangled, and she'd walked away before they could escape.
"He's there," she thought, spotting him ahead. "Did he notice yesterday?"
Her breath caught. Her chest tightened, frustration mixing with fear. She walked toward him, unsure of what face he would wear.
But Bhairava turned and smiled—soft, easy, like nothing had happened.
Relief flooded her. She smiled back and sat beside him, letting the moment settle. They unpacked their lunch and began to eat, the silence between them now gentle, almost comforting.
Then Mano arrived, breathless, and dropped down in front of them.
"Bhairava," he said quickly, "I just found out—Ananya's sister died in an accident last night."
Bhairava's hand froze mid-motion. "What?" he said, eyes wide. "How?"
"I don't know the details," Mano said. "I heard it from one of her friends. It was sudden. Drunk driving, I think."
Bhairava's eyes drifted toward the horizon. The image of Ananya rushing out of college that morning flashed in his mind, her hurried steps, her lowered gaze.
"That's why she came and left so suddenly," he thought. "She didn't even look at anyone."
It made sense now. The hurried steps. The silence. The absence.
He felt a quiet ache in his chest not just for Ananya, but for the way life could shift so suddenly. One moment, everything was normal. The next, it wasn't.
They finished their lunch in silence, the rooftop quieter than usual. The breeze felt colder, the sky a little heavier.
After lunch, the three of them Bhairava, Mano, and Aarya headed back to class. The afternoon passed quietly, the weight of the news still lingering in the air. None of them spoke much, but their presence beside each other felt grounding.
Once college ended, they cycled home together, weaving through the narrow lanes with practiced ease. On the way, they stopped at Shivani's school, where she stood waiting with her usual bright smile. She hopped onto Aarya's cycle, her bag slung across her shoulder, and they continued home.
Once home, Bhairava and Shivani freshened up, the sounds of running water and cupboard doors filling the quiet spaces. They changed clothes and got ready for their evening routines. Bhairava grabbed his bag, and Shivani packed her music books.
As always, Bhairava dropped Shivani off at the music school first. She waved at him from the gate, disappearing into the building with a bounce in her step. Then he rode on toward the supermarket, the sky dimming into a soft orange.
After his shift ended, he cycled home under the streetlights, the air cooler now, the roads quieter.
At home, the dining table was already set. The aroma of sambar and roasted vegetables filled the air, mingling with the soft clatter of plates. Bhairava's father, Ashok, sat at the head of the table with phone in his ear, he was trying to call someone. His mother, Geetha, moved between the kitchen and the table, serving rice with practiced ease. Shivani sat waiting, elbows on the table, chin resting on her palm.
On the floor, their golden retriever, Bell, lay stretched out, tail thumping lazily against the tiles.
Bhairava stepped in just as Geetha looked up. "Perfect timing," she said with a smile, handing him a plate.
He smiled back, slid into his seat, and let the warmth of home settle around him. The day's weight softened in the glow of familiar voices and the scent of dinner.
As she served Bhairava, Geetha glanced at Ashok still glued to his screen. Without a word, she reached over, snatched the phone from his hand, and placed it beside his plate.
"No mobile while eating," she said firmly.
Bell lifted his head briefly, Geetha gave Bell his bowl of dog food, patting his head before finally sitting down to eat with the rest of them.
Ashok was quiet. He held his spoon, but barely touched the food. His eyes were distant, fixed somewhere beyond the dining room wall.
Geetha noticed. She paused mid-serving and looked at him. "Ashok," she said gently, "what's on your mind?"
Ashok blinked, then smiled faintly. "Nothing," he replied, shaking his head. "Just tired."
Ashok was the Inspector of Police. The title came with weight, files stacked high, calls at odd hours, decisions that didn't always have clear answers. And sometimes, even at the dinner table, the job followed him home.
Geetha raised an eyebrow, but didn't press. She'd seen that look before—the quiet storm behind his eyes. "Concentrate on the food while eating," she said, her voice light, teasing. Ashok nodded and began to eat.
The room glowed with the soft light of ceiling lamps and the comfort of routine. Dinner ended with laughter and the clink of steel tumblers. After the plates were cleared and the kitchen quieted, they lingered talking, teasing, sharing fragments of their day.
Later, Bhairava and Shivani retreated to their room. Shivani curled up with her diary, scribbling quickly, her brow furrowed in concentration. Within minutes, her breathing slowed, and she drifted into sleep.
Bhairava sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his hand. A dull ache settled in his chest.
"I forgot to practice lucid dreaming today."
The thought came with a wave of frustration. The day had been exhausting, and the news about Ananya had thrown him off balance. Yesterday had felt like a breakthrough—a small but promising start. If he kept at it, he could master it. He knew that. But today had slipped through his fingers.
He exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers to his temple. The frustration sat heavy in his chest.
Still, he reached for the pen on his desk. Slowly, deliberately, he traced over the faded letter on the back of his hand, thickening the lines. A quiet ritual. A promise to himself. Then he lay down.