The wheels of the jet kissed the Indian runway, and the familiar scent of earth and monsoon-drenched concrete drifted in through the slightly open window.
And then—
it hit him.
Like a flash.
Blinding. Violent. Fleeting.
Blood. Screams. A red dress. A child crying. His hands… covered in something. A silver anklet hitting the ground. A gunshot. Then—dark.
Aksh blinked. His breath caught. His spine stiffened for a second too long.
The hum of the jet returning to stillness grounded him again, but the ghost of that memory flickered at the edges of his consciousness like a broken reel of an old film—one that didn't belong to the man he remembered being.
He didn't say anything.
He just looked out the window again, his fingers curling into fists.
Ahana was beside him, fixing her scarf, unaware of the storm that had briefly torn through his mind.
And yet, as he stepped out of the plane onto Indian soil for the first time in what felt like centuries… he knew.
Something here knew him.
Something here wanted to be remembered.
And something… was waiting.
Ahana leaned against the window, her heart pounding quietly, like it was knocking on doors of her past she wasn't ready to open yet.
She hadn't been home in a year.
Not since everything changed.
Aksh, sitting beside her, was quieter than usual. His gaze stayed on her more than the view outside. There was no smugness now—only a still, thoughtful silence.
As the plane touched down with a gentle thud, she inhaled slowly, her fingers curling in her lap.
"Ready?" he asked, voice low, calm.
"No," she admitted honestly, glancing at him. "But I want to be."
Aksh gave a small nod. He didn't offer empty reassurances. He didn't pretend it would be easy. And that's why his presence comforted her the most.
The steps of the jet clicked beneath her heels as they descended. A faint breeze carried the familiar scent of Indian earth, spice, and dust. The smell of memories.
---
The ride to her house was quiet. Not tense, just… heavy. Like both of them were wrapped in unspoken thoughts.
Ahana stared out of the window, recognizing roads she used to cross in school, the tea stall at the corner of her street, the red bricks of the temple she'd once prayed at—so long ago, she didn't know if the gods remembered her.
Aksh noticed her grip on the seat tightening. He reached over and silently laced his fingers with hers.
Her head turned, and his eyes met hers.
No words.
But his grip was strong. Steady. Hers to hold.
---
Her mother stood in the doorway.
Older, but with the same soft smile. Teary-eyed. Her arms opened wide.
"Ahana…"
The hug that followed was like melting into time.
Warm, familiar, fragile.
Ahana didn't cry, not in front of the whole neighborhood. But her eyes stung, and her throat ached.
Her mother kissed her forehead. "You came home."
Ahana smiled faintly. "I needed to."
Her mother's eyes shifted to Aksh, standing just behind her. Dressed in a black shirt, sleeves rolled up, his hazel eyes calm—but guarded.
He bowed his head slightly, respectful. "Namaste, aunty."
Her mother blinked, surprised by his politeness, but smiled back. "Come in, both of you."
---
That night, the tension remained. Not in conflict—but in anticipation.
Ahana sat on the terrace with a cup of chai her mother made, the night breeze brushing her skin. Behind her, she heard footsteps. She didn't turn. She knew it was him.
Aksh sat beside her without saying anything.
They stared at the stars in silence.
"Do you believe in fate?" she finally whispered.
He turned his head slowly, watching her.
"I don't know what I believe in anymore," he replied. "But I believe in you."
She turned to him. The shadows of the night danced over his face, highlighting the sharp lines, the emotion hidden in those eyes.
"Why me, Aksh?" she asked softly.
He didn't answer right away. His voice was a whisper when it finally came. "I don't know. Maybe… because even before I remembered you, I already missed you."
Her breath caught.
He wasn't talking about something romantic.
He was talking about something deeper.
Older.
Unexplainable.
And yet…
Real.