In the weeks that followed, Rathnadevi vanished from public life. No farewell interviews. No memoirs. Just silence. Some said she moved to the Himalayas. Others claimed she lived under a different name, working in a women's shelter in Kerala. No one knew for certain.
Perhaps that was the point.
Anushree returned to New York. She resumed her work, but something in her had changed. Her gaze was softer, her instincts sharper. She spoke less in meetings, listened more. The wound between her and her past hadn't closed—but it had stopped bleeding. A broken heart can still beat.
Naveen stayed and joined the Hyderabad Intelligence Division, quietly declining press inquiries, awards, even promotions. His name never appeared in the headlines. But within the corridors of those who paid attention, he was known—the man who cracked the conspiracy no one wanted exposed.
His pain never left. But he learned to carry it.
One morning, a year later, he returned to the river. No crowds this time. Just wind, water, and the rustle of trees.
He stood there for a while, watching the light ripple across the surface, golden and endless.
Then he whispered, not to anyone present—but to someone he carried within him.
"I hope you're proud of me."
And with that, he turned.
And walked away.