"Good evening, June. This is Lucas."
She stared at the name for a long, quiet second, uncertain whether to breathe or freeze. Of all people, why would he message her directly? Gathering courage, she typed:
"Sir… may I know why you texted me?"
A moment later, his reply arrived.
"Your principal shared your contact. I need to send you the catalogue images of the sarees for the promotional event. Since you'll represent the brand, it's better if you receive them directly."
June felt a wave of relief wash over her chest. So that was the reason. Nothing more. Nothing unusual. Nothing… personal.
Yet her fingers trembled slightly as she typed back:
"Alright sir, you can send them."
Within minutes, her phone filled with high–resolution pictures. Elegant drapes, pure silk textures, handwoven patterns—each piece carried a quiet story. She downloaded everything carefully and opened her laptop to begin her preparation.
But soon she found herself stuck.
The history of the fabric…
The origin of the weaving style…
The awards the brand had won…
She couldn't find the last few details anywhere. And deadlines were approaching fast.
After struggling for almost an hour, she exhaled deeply and stared at her phone again. Should she ask him? Was it appropriate?
Her thumb hovered over the call button. After several seconds of hesitation, she finally pressed it.
The line rang once.
Twice.
Thrice.
Then his voice—deep, calm, unmistakably familiar—filled her ears.
"June?"
A strange warmth travelled across her skin. "Sir, I… I had a doubt regarding the catalogue. I tried searching but couldn't find the information."
"Tell me," Lucas said gently. "What do you need?"
And just like that, a simple query turned into a long conversation—longer than either of them intended.
He explained every detail patiently, adding stories behind the designs, about his travels, his artisans, the traditions he wanted to preserve. June listened, mesmerised, her pen moving quickly across the page as she jotted down each point.
But soon their conversation drifted—into lighter things, unexpected things.
Her college life.
His daily work.
Her ambitions.
His views on destiny.
At one moment, both of them paused, realising that they had forgotten this was supposed to be a formal discussion. Neither had noticed how effortlessly the conversation had softened, as if some invisible thread tugged their minds into unexpected closeness.
It was only when June glanced at the clock that she gasped softly.
10:07 PM.
"Sir! We've been talking for so long… I'm extremely sorry."
Lucas's low chuckle hummed through the speaker. "It's alright, June. I… didn't realise it either."
For a moment, silence settled—a warm, inexplicable silence.
"Goodnight, sir," she said softly.
"Goodnight, June."
She ended the call with a flutter in her breath.
As her room fell silent, the overhead light flickered faintly. A cold breeze slipped in through the window. Somewhere far away—in a place untouched by time—an old lantern sparked to life.
A solitary saint walked along a dark forest path, his robes brushing against damp leaves. The flame of his lantern glowed fiercely as he murmured into the whispering wind:
"The appointed hour draws near. The souls move again… toward each other."
Then the lantern dimmed, and he faded into the shadows.
The next morning arrived quickly, without dreams, without rest. June tied her hair neatly, wore a soft-coloured kurti, and hurried to college. She hoped the day would remain normal.
But the moment she entered campus, her principal called her to the office.
"June, your catalogues are ready. Take them," she said.
June blinked. "Ma'am… Mr. Lucas already sent them to me last night."
The principal raised her brows. "He did? Hm. That's strange. He told me he'd send them to you today."
June froze.
A strange confusion rose in her.
Why would he tell the principal one thing and tell her another?
Why did he message her on his own?
Why did he talk the entire evening?
Why did it all feel… familiar?
Her thoughts spiraled but she kept them to herself. She simply accepted the printed copies and left the room with a polite smile.
Back in the corridor, she whispered under her breath:
"Why would he lie?"
Her friends joked, laughed, teased about the upcoming event, but June remained distracted. Something inside her—it wasn't fear, nor excitement, but a quiet pull—kept circling his name in her mind.
Evening approached slowly.
Rain clouds gathered again, darkening the sky. By the time college ended, heavy drops began striking the pavement. Students rushed to the gate, shielding their heads with notebooks.
June stood under the awning, hugging her bag, waiting for an auto.
And then she saw it.
A black car halted slightly ahead, its headlights cutting through the shimmering rain. The window lowered, and Lucas leaned forward from the driver's seat, his gaze settling on her with a strange softness.
Neither of them smiled.
Neither of them spoke.
They simply looked—as if something inside them recognised something the mind could not name.
Autos moved past. Rain soaked the road. Yet in that brief, suspended moment, their eyes held a quiet storm.
And then—