Devika was alive.
Swathed in burns. Her face partially masked. But her eyes—the same piercing obsidian—remained untouched.
She hadn't spoken a word since the fire.
Except to one person.
Meher.
---
Meher's Visit – Jaipur ICU
They allowed only 10 minutes.
"I came to make sure you weren't dead," Meher said, eyes cold.
Devika smiled behind cracked lips. "That's kind of you."
Meher didn't sit. "You used him. Like the others."
"I gave him purpose."
"You destroyed him."
Devika's voice was low, raspy. "No. He was the painting. But you—you're the signature."
Meher stiffened. "What the hell does that mean?"
Devika reached under her hospital blanket. Pulled out something wrapped in gauze.
A canvas.
Small.
Unfinished.
Only the outline was visible.
Meher's face.
Half-smiling.
Half-crying.
Painted in blood-red strokes.
---
Flashback – Six Months Ago
Devika met Riaan on a rainy train platform. Not by chance.
He looked like Nikhil. Talked like him.
But he lacked the fire.
So she created it.
The art.
The seduction.
The obsession.
Meher? Just a wild card. But wild cards tend to break the game.
---
Present Day – Riaan's Apartment
He stood before his mirror, staring at his reflection.
Who was he now?
The lover?
The copy?
The survivor?
Behind him, Meher appeared.
Wearing his white shirt.
Nothing else.
The bandage on her thigh peeked out, but her eyes were firm.
"I'm still here," she said.
"I know."
She came close.
Unbuttoned one more button.
"You're not him, Riaan. You're not anyone's creation."
He pulled her in.
This time it wasn't gentle.
It was hungry.
Cleansing.
Raw.
Their lips crashed, breaths collided, hands searched skin like it held truth.
The bed caught them mid-stumble.
No one spoke.
Only moans, like memories being exorcised.
---
Meanwhile – Devika's Final Act
In her hospital bed, Devika painted with trembling fingers.
The morphine had dulled her pain but sharpened her vision.
Stroke by stroke, she filled the canvas.
Not with faces.
But with fire.
Red and orange swirling like breath.
And in the centre—
A silhouette.
Two lovers.
Entwined.
Free.
"I never made art," she whispered. "I just made truth bleed."
Then she closed her eyes.
And never woke up again.
---
Epilogue — One Year Later
A new art gallery opens in Udaipur.
"Burnt Memory: The Devika Diaries"
One wing remains sealed to the public.
Except for one private showing.
Inside: a painting.
Of a woman and a man in bed.
Naked.
Unashamed.
Unpainted.
Just sketched in charcoal.
But the signature was clear:
M.R.
Meher Rathi.
The End