19 years ago.
The bansuri had stopped.
For the first time in centuries, Nidhivan was silent.
Vrinda stood in the center of the grove, trembling.
The other dancers were there — Radha forms, Raas souls, divine echoes.
But the circle was missing one soul.
The one who always stood across her.
The one who never showed up.
The tenth.
She looked up toward the full moon.
"He doesn't remember," she whispered.
"He never does."
A feather drifted down.
Not onto her palm…
But onto the ground.
Cold.
She dropped to her knees.
"Please. Let me stay this time."
A voice echoed — not in ears, but in soul:
"You cannot dance with a shadow, Vrinda.
Until he chooses light."
She cried.
"Then let me wait.
As Radha waited."
A pause.
Then the flute played once.
And the trees began to shift again.
⚡ THE FIRST MARK
At that exact moment, a baby girl was born in another town.
She cried before anyone touched her.
And on her wrist…
A faint Sanskrit mark appeared:
"जैसे पहले था"
The baby's name?
Aarohi.
And the Raas Leela, paused for nineteen years,
had found its missing soul — reborn, waiting.
The bansuri didn't stop again.
But it stayed quiet.
Until the day she would return.
Until the day he would remember.
Until they would choose:
To stay. Or to dance.