The morning sun did not rise with warmth over the sands of Kuldhara. Instead, it split the horizon in a blaze of gold and fire, as if the desert itself mourned. Veer stood in the battered courtyard of the crumbling temple, sword slick with blood, breath ragged. His heart pounded not with fear, but the aching echo of Meera's retreating footsteps—her sobs swallowed by the dunes as he had turned back to fight.
He had chosen to stay behind.
Not out of arrogance or martyrdom, but for her. For the fleeting moments they had stolen from a cruel fate. Meera's freedom had become his final prayer.
The Rajput soldiers circled him now, their eyes wary despite his wounds. He had already felled four, their bodies scattered like fallen leaves. But his strength was waning, blood seeping from a deep cut along his ribs. Still, his grip on the hilt never wavered. His final breath would not be taken kneeling.
A young soldier, barely older than a boy, stepped forward, his sword trembling. Veer looked at him—truly looked—and said, voice hoarse, "Go home, boy. Live for love, not war."
The boy hesitated, then dropped his blade and fled. But others pressed on. Veer parried one strike, then another, until pain blinded him. An arrow tore through his shoulder, and he staggered, falling to his knees before the temple steps.
He crawled to the broken jasmine bush where Meera had once placed her prayer threads. He pressed his bloodied hand to the petals and whispered, "Let me see her again… just once."
Meera's heart shattered with every step she took away from the fort. The wind roared behind her, whispering fragments of the battle. She stumbled through thorned brush and thorny silence, guided only by instinct—and love.
By twilight, she found shelter in an abandoned caravanserai, hidden between dunes and guarded by a nomadic priestess who asked no questions.
Days passed.
Each night, she lit a diya and placed it atop the dune, her lips murmuring Veer's name. Each morning, she returned to the same spot, praying the wind would carry her love back to her. The flute he had carved from sandalwood never left her side. She held it as though it were his heart.
But no word came. No sign of his survival. Silence grew louder than screams.
A month later, a wandering bard arrived, injured and starving. Meera nursed him back to health, and in return, he sang her tales—of cities falling, of kings betrayed, and of a fort where jasmine flowers now grew atop bloodied stone.
She knew.
The realization came with a scream. She ran to the edge of the dunes and collapsed, pressing her face into the sand, sobbing like the sky had fallen. Veer was gone.
But she was not broken.
She gathered the priestess and the women of the village. Together, they built a sanctuary on the hill, where orphaned lovers and widowed souls could come to heal. Meera became a guardian—not just of memories, but of hope.
She taught girls to read and sing. She taught boys to write poetry instead of carrying swords. Her pain had become her legacy.
Yet each evening, she still climbed that dune with the flute and blew a single note into the wind.
Back in the haunted fort, soldiers claimed to hear whispers at dusk. A shadow would appear on the parapet, humming an old desert ballad. Jasmine bloomed unnaturally across the battlements, covering scars of battle.
Those who came too close said they saw a figure—bloodied, noble, clutching a flute in one hand and a sword in the other. Then the vision would vanish into sand.
One night, as a storm cracked open the desert sky, Meera climbed the hill for the last time. Her hair, now streaked with silver, danced like flame in the wind. She wore her bridal anklets, and her bangles sang as she walked.
She played the flute.
Not a lament, but a promise.
"I will find you," she whispered to the stars. "Across centuries, across lives. My soul is stitched to yours."
And with that, she let the flute fall into the sand.
She turned back to the temple, lightning flashing behind her, and smiled.
She had loved fiercely. She had lived bravely. She had not lost—only waited.
One more life.
One more chance.