Arun stood motionless, hands resting on the cold iron railing of the balcony. His eyes followed the curve of the half-moon in the ink-black sky. The world was still—no wind, no rustle of leaves, not even the murmur of night creatures. A calm that felt almost cruel.
Behind the half-open door, Mr. Raj stood with arms crossed. His posture was composed, but his silence carried weight.
He glanced at Arun, then turned to Annaya at his side. Her expression was unreadable, yet deeply present.
"I owe them," Mr. Raj murmured. "Both Mr. Singh and Mr. Rawat. I've tried to mend things between them for years. It isn't just about peace—it's the least I can do to repay them."
Annaya turned, her gaze soft but resolute, her voice quiet yet clear. "I understand, Papa. And I promise—you're not alone. He's like my own brother. I'll stand by him. Always."
They exchanged a faint nod. Without another word, Mr. Raj walked away. And Annaya reached for the half-open door—and stepped inside.
The room met her with silence. No hush, no movement. Arun stood with his back to her.
Her steps were soundless across the floor—no questions, no disruption. Just presence.
At the threshold, she let the night air touch her before speaking. "This balcony means something to you," she said softly, almost to the moon. "Like it heard you when no one else could."
Arun blinked but stayed silent.
The breeze stirred faintly.
Annaya's tone softened further. "I know how easily you wear silence like armor. But not everything has to be fixed with silence."
This time, she looked at him directly. "I'm not saying rush to him. Just… don't let fear make the choice for you."
For the first time, Arun turned. His eyes were dim but open. His lips parted, voice unsteady. "But… I don't know if he needs me."
Annaya didn't press. She turned her gaze skyward, her words almost a whisper. "Then let your heart be free to find the answer."
Silence returned, but lighter now. Something in Arun's chest loosened. He glanced at the moon once more and murmured, "Should I?"
Annaya exhaled softly. She simply stayed—beside him, not as a guide or savior, but as a sister who would never let him stand in the dark alone.
...
[ Years ago ]
The room was quiet, broken only by the rustle of a turning page. Seven-year-old Arun sat curled in a velvet armchair, a book heavy in his lap but weightless in his world. Beyond the glass doors, moonlight spilled like silver across the balcony.
The door creaked.
Soft, barefoot steps pattered across the marble. A pair of tiny feet entered—hesitant, yet drawn forward like petals on a breeze.
Arun looked up. His face already carried a quiet refinement, a gentle strength in his jaw, and a stillness that felt more mature than his years.
At the doorway stood a little boy—small, delicate, wrapped in wonder. Wide eyes glistened, cheeks flushed, lips parted in awe. Tufts of hair tumbled across his forehead, kissed by innocence and starlight. He said nothing, only looked at Arun, then turned—enchanted—toward the balcony.
Without a word, he tiptoed across the room. His tiny hands pressed to the glass, then slid the door open. Moonlight washed over him as if he belonged in it.
Arun blinked. Something stirred in his chest. He set the book aside and followed. "Wait… who are you?"
Outside, the night clung soft as silk. The full moon hung like a promise in the velvet sky.
The boy stood by the railing, small hands curled around the bars. His eyes, wide with wonder, reflected the glow like mirrors of the moon. "It's glowing," he whispered. "It looks different from here."
Arun stopped beside him. The way the boy leaned forward, joy blooming on his face, lashes catching moonlight—it felt sacred, almost unreal.
Something shifted in Arun. A quiet glow rose in him before he even knew it had. And he kept looking—as if recognizing something important without knowing why.
Just then, a voice drifted between them. "Young master?"
They turned.
A maid stood at the edge of the room, hands folded, eyes kind. "Forgive the disturbance." She smiled at the little boy. "Mr. Rawat is asking for you, little one. You shouldn't wander here alone."
The boy blinked, puzzled. "Why do you call him 'young master'?" he asked with the sweetest pout, his voice honey-soft in the cool night.
The maid chuckled, bending to his level. "Because he's very special to us—and I need his attention."
The boy turned back to Arun, thoughtful. Then he smiled—bright, gentle, the kind of smile that aches in the softest way. "Then I'll call you that too," he whispered, eyes twinkling.
Arun's heart skipped. It shouldn't have—not for something so small. But it did, loud and soft at once, like a secret blooming inside him.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway—measured, familiar.
The maid stepped back and bowed in respect.
Mr. Rawat appeared, tall, posture sharp, gaze softened by affection. He came forward, resting a hand on the younger boy's head, smoothing his hair with tender ease. "There you are," he murmured, then looked at Arun with quiet warmth. "Arun… this is Abhi. My son."
The name landed like a song that would never leave his heart.
Arun didn't speak. He only looked at the boy again. "Abhi," he murmured, and something glowed inside him—quiet, radiant.
Mr. Rawat gathered Abhi into his arms and carried him toward the door, their shadows stretching long across the marble.
Over his father's shoulder, Abhi glanced back. His lips curved into a smile—slow, unguarded, glowing like starlight. "Bye… Young master."
Arun stayed at the balcony, rooted in the silver hush of night, his chest stirred by those words, and something unnamed yet already precious.
...
[ Time skip—Rawat house ]
Abhi sat on the edge of the marble steps by the shoe rack, fingers threading through his laces with steady precision. His hands were sure, but his breath betrayed him—shallow, uneven. A nervousness that didn't tremble the body, only stirred the soul.
At the doorway, Aarav leaned against the frame, car keys dangling from two fingers. His posture was casual, but his gaze never left Abhi. Calm. Steady.
Their eyes met. A nod. A shared breath. The moment they had been waiting for.
Then—"Abhi."
The voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the hush like a chime.
They turned. Abhi's heart stuttered as Mr. Rawat came into view at the far end of the hall. "I'm not ready to tell him anything yet..." Abhi thought, his chest tightening.
Mr. Rawat looked stronger today. His eyes were clearer, carrying a warmth that had been dimmed for years. He moved with care but with purpose, a manila file tucked beneath his arm like something sacred.
Abhi straightened, the knot in his stomach pulling tighter. Aarav stood at his side, silent.
Mr. Rawat stopped before them, his gaze steady, unreadable. Then, with the weight of something greater than paper, he extended the file.
"I have something for you," he said quietly.
Abhi hesitated before reaching out. The file was still warm from his father's hand. He opened it slowly, confusion flickering across his face.
His breath hitched. Property papers. The Townside land. The thing Arun had asked for—before all this started.
His fingers stalled mid-page, his voice barely a whisper. "Papa… this—"
Mr. Rawat's expression didn't waver. His voice was steady, threaded with quiet tenderness. "He's a boy who doesn't ask for much. So when he does… you should try giving it to him."
The words settled deep in Abhi's chest. No fireworks, no shock. Just a quiet shift. "Papa knew?"
Aarav chuckled softly, easing the weight. "Guess Papa still knows how to drop a surprise bomb," he teased, nudging Abhi's arm.
Abhi pressed the file against his chest. His lips parted—ready to say thank you—but nothing came. Heat rushed to his cheeks, a mix of blush and everything he couldn't name. Embarrassment. Love. Relief.