Author's POVThe train slowed as it pulled into Sheerghat Railway Station, letting out a long sigh of steam that drifted across the platform. The town was quiet, surrounded by hills and old trees that rustled softly in the wind. The platform wasn't crowded, just a few locals moving at an easy pace, as if time itself was slower here. The girls stepped down with their bags, stretching after the long journey. Aravali was busy with her tablet, scrolling through hotel reviews and comparing room facilities with intense concentration, while the others simply observed the calmness of the place. Sheerghat felt untouched and old, but not abandoned; it felt like a place holding stories in silence. And among that silence, someone was waiting. A young man stood a few meters away, dressed in a charcoal-grey coat and matching hat, a bouquet of white lilies resting loosely in his hand. He wasn't fidgeting or looking around. He was simply standing there, composed, like he knew exactly who he was waiting for.
Iaa's POVI noticed him first—not because he stood out dramatically, but because he didn't look like he belonged in an ordinary railway station. He looked too calm, too prepared. While we were still adjusting our bags and checking directions, he was already watching us, not in a creepy way, but in a way that said he had been expecting this moment. I nudged Shiva slightly, and she followed my gaze, raising an eyebrow in that impatient way of hers. Sita tried to guess whether he was waiting for someone else, but when he started walking directly toward us with steady steps and no hesitation, we all understood he was here for us. There was something in the way he moved—confident, quiet, certain—that made it feel like the situation was already set into motion before we even arrived.
Author's POVHe stopped in front of them and offered a polite, subtle bow. Then he extended the bouquet forward with a calm expression, his voice steady as he spoke, "Welcome to Sheerghat." The girls exchanged a brief look, unsure but attentive. Iaa was the first to speak, asking who he was, and the young man lifted his head slightly before replying, "My name is Kartikya Singhania." The name settled into the air like something familiar rediscovered. It matched the signature from the records they found. The connection was clear—not forced, not dramatic—just quietly real.
Sita's POVThe moment he said his name, something clicked in my mind. The letters we found back in the hidden room, the notes exchanged, the way the charm was described as something passed from one guardian family to another—his family must have been part of that. I looked down at the broken necklace in my hand, remembering how helpless I felt when it shattered. Now, suddenly, here stood someone whose family might have the answer to fixing it. Kartikya handed me the bouquet gently, and I accepted it just as carefully. The flowers were soft and fresh, and their scent felt calming. He didn't try to speak in riddles or pretend to be mysterious; he simply acknowledged what he knew with a quiet certainty. I found myself relaxing, just a little.
Aravali's POVI was still focused on the hotels on my tablet when I finally looked up. And in that moment, everything inside me froze. The man standing in front of us was exactly the type I would have drawn for an ideal character in my head—tall, wavy hair pulled loosely back, calm brown eyes framed by lashes that were unfairly long, dressed in a suit that wasn't flashy but carried effortless elegance. It was like every feature of his was styled in that soft, thoughtful way I admired. I blinked once, twice, trying not to stare too obviously, but my heartbeat was suddenly too loud in my ears. When I asked who he was, even though everyone already knew, he looked at me with a steady, composed expression and simply said, "I'm Kartikya." The name sounded warmer when he said it himself. I nodded a little too quickly, realizing how ridiculous I must have looked. I tried to act normal—but my voice betrayed the slightest tremor. My face felt warm. I wanted to hide behind my tablet.
Author's POVShiva, practical and impatient as always, reminded everyone that they still needed a place to stay. Aravali started listing hotel options, talking about room availability and breakfast ratings, but Kartikya interrupted gently, without arrogance. "You won't need a hotel. You'll stay at my mansion," he said, as if it were the most natural solution. His reasoning was simple: their families had been connected for generations. Hospitality, in this context, wasn't charity—it was tradition. Shiva looked like she wanted to question it further, but even she seemed to recognize the sincerity in his tone. Aravali finally lowered her tablet, processing his words more slowly than the rest of them, and when his gaze briefly met hers, it wasn't intense or dramatic—just quiet acknowledgement. But even that was enough to make her heart skip.
Kartikya led them outside to a vintage black jeep parked near the exit. The town beyond the station was peaceful, narrow roads winding through clusters of old houses and trees whose branches swayed in the gentle breeze. The sky was cloudy, but not gloomy; the air felt like it carried old stories. He opened the back door of the jeep for the girls to place their bags. His manner was polite but not rehearsed—like someone raised with the habit of consideration rather than the performance of it. Aravali was the last to climb into the jeep. She hesitated for a moment, feeling the weight of something new forming, something quiet but undeniable. When she finally settled in, her pulse still hadn't steadied.
The jeep started moving, leaving the station behind. None of the girls spoke for a while. The silence wasn't awkward—it was thoughtful, filled with questions they hadn't yet formed into words. The road ahead cut through old trees and gentle slopes, leading toward the town's older heart where Kartikya's mansion waited. Something was shifting, slowly and quietly. Not dramatic. Not sudden. Just the feeling of stepping into a part of their story that had always been waiting for them.
And somewhere in that silence, a beginning unfolded—not just of mystery, or legacy, or the journey to fix what was broken—but of something far more delicate. Something that starts before either person notices, soft as a breath.
Aravali had begun to fall.