They say what's freed returns to light. But in the dusk's last breath, came a butterfly only he could recognize.
~~~~~
KaanKuwar still sits beside the owl's body, his hand gently resting on her feathers. Shaamvi stands near him, quiet, eyes heavy.
Then suddenly—pain grips her chest like a fist. Her knees buckle. She coughs hard—and blood spills from her lips. Her nose bleeds. Her ears too. As if every sense, every gateway into her soul, is bleeding at once.
KaanKuwar rises in a flash and catches her before she falls.
Her weight collapses against him, and in that moment, though her senses blur, she feels something steady. His arms around her are strong, yet kind. A warmth flows through her—not magic, but something older. Something like care.
"You need to rest," he says.
"I think…" she whispers, her voice cracked and brittle, "the effect of your energy… on the curse… it's wearing off."
Then—she hears it. A creak.
The narrow gate to her home opens.
Shaamvi lifts her head weakly. "He's here," she gasps.
KaanKuwar supports her as she walks, slowly, toward the entrance. A figure steps in—broad-shouldered, tall.
His skin is deep bronze, sun-warmed. His hair falls in long waves to his shoulders—black. A silver carnelian locket swings around his neck.
He wears a modern priest-like outfit—a long, linen tunic in white that fits him well.
Around his neck hangs a black scarf, almost like a stole, its ends reaching down past his waist.
His trousers are also white, his boots show signs of many travels. Prayer rosary wraps around his wrist, the beads clicking softly as he moves.
His frame is strong—broad-chested, with arms that carry the quiet strength of someone used to both prayer and survival.
As soon as he sees Shaamvi, he rushes toward her. "Your condition's worse than I thought," he says, touching her arm gently. "I'll try to break—"
"Yes, yes—" she cuts him off, pointing to the backyard. "First, help that soul. She's in the backyard."
"And...meet him." Her eyes turn to KaanKuwar. "He's my friend. Stanzin. He knows how to break curses."
Stanzin's gaze shifts to KaanKuwar.
He steps forward, smiling, and extends his hand. " Namaste"
KaanKuwar takes it. The moment their palms meet, the smile drains from Stanzin's face.
His eyes widen. He steps back a little, his breath caught.
"You…" he says slowly. "You're not human."
KaanKuwar pulls his hand away, jaw tight, eyes down. Still holding Shaamvi with one arm, he wonders 'Why does these people get to know this just by touching me?'
"We'll talk about it later," Shaamvi says to Stanzin, through clenched teeth, blood glistening between them.
Stanzin gives a single nod and moves to the backyard.
There beside the owl's body, he kneels. He begins to prepare.
He lays out iron bells, and ochre powders. He draws concentric circles in the dirt, placing symbols made of rice flour and turmeric at each compass point.
In the center, he places the owl's body, wrapped in cloth.
He dons his ritual garb—anklets of brass that chime with every movement.
He lights a fire in a small copper urn.
Then begins the Nritya-Tantra—the sacred dance of release.
Barefoot on the earth, his body moves in rhythm to chants he sings under his breath. His feet strike the soil like heartbeats, raising dust like incense. His arms rise and fall like mountain winds. His long hair flies behind him as he spins. Every step seems to pull energy from the ground, stir it, and throw it skyward.
His body starts to move faster, the beat rises , the anklets ringing louder. Sweat pours down his face, chest, and spine. The wind begins to shake in response—leaves rustle. The fire stirs.
Even the owl's feathers seem to breathe.
Shaamvi watches from where she sits, half-conscious, pain pulsing behind her eyes.
KaanKuwar is holding her softly, shielding her body from the heat of the ritual.
She leans into him, breath shaky. His touch calms something inside her—not just the pain, but the fear beneath it.
Time stretches.
The sky above turns a deeper orange. Dusk leans closer.
Then—something shifts.
A sudden hush.
The air feels lighter. The owl's feathers agitate quietly in the breeze.
Stanzin stops, chest heaving.
"It's done," he says at last, voice hoarse. "The parasite soul curse is lifted."
Stanzin kneels again, whispering the final prayer to help the soul ascend.
Just then—a butterfly drifts down and settles on the rooftop, wings ink-dark.
No one really notices.
But KaanKuwar does. His eyes shift upward. His gaze sharpens. That is no ordinary butterfly.
In his mind, he speaks to it: "Who sent you?"
The butterfly tilts slightly… as if listening.
Then comes a whisper only he hears—
"Ah…. so you recognized me."