In Yuvaan's Office…
Morning light streamed softly through the blinds, casting pale stripes across the desk stacked with files. But Yuvaan wasn't reading any of them—his attention was fixed on the screen before him.
A video call connected, and the familiar face of Varun, Kiara's elder brother, appeared. Older now, a little more tired than Yuvaan remembered, yet his eyes held the same warmth.
Yuvaan exhaled slowly. "It's been a while, Varun."
Varun offered a faint smile. "Too long, actually. I'm glad you called."
For a moment, neither spoke—silence heavy, filled with unspoken memories.
Then Yuvaan leaned back in his chair, voice low, honest.
"Things aren't the same anymore… especially with Kiaan. He barely talks to me. He avoids me. It's like—like I'm losing him too."
Varun's expression softened. "Kiara's absence changed a lot of things, Yuvaan. You both were closest to her… losing her created a void neither of you know how to fill."
Yuvaan's jaw clenched, eyes clouding.
"I try, Varun. I try to be a good father. But every day, I feel like I'm failing. Kiaan looks at me like… like I'm the villain of his story."
He laughed bitterly. "And maybe I am."
Varun leaned closer to the screen. "No. You're a father raising a child through grief. That's the hardest role."
Yuvaan swallowed. "You say that, but your father doesn't see it that way."
Varun looked down, silent for a beat.
Yuvaan continued, voice rough.
"When Vikram uncle heard about my engagement with Rani, he called me. Not to ask how I was… but to tell me I was betraying Kiara's memory. He said I moved on too fast. That I didn't love her enough. He bashed me for hours."
His voice tried to remain calm, but the tremor beneath it was unmistakable.
Varun sighed. "Dad isn't hateful, Yuvaan. He's angry. Hurt. Sometimes grief speaks harshly… cruelly. You know how much he loved Kiara."
"I know," Yuvaan whispered. "But knowing doesn't make the words hurt less."
Varun nodded slowly. "Give it time. And Kiaan—he'll understand you one day. Children see truth eventually, even if they resist it now."
Yuvaan stared at his own reflection in the dark corner of the monitor—tired, guilty, lost.
"I hope so, Varun. Because I don't want to lose him too."
Yuvaan hesitated for a beat, fingers tapping lightly against the desk. The call felt warm—familiar—like a piece of his old life. And with that warmth came another memory. Another name.
"Varun…" he began cautiously, "any news on Dilruba?"
Varun's face fell, just slightly. That one name carried weight—of longing, heartbreak, and nine years of unanswered hope.
He exhaled. "No. Not a trace. I've searched everywhere, Yuvaan. Cities, old contacts, magical circles… even the ruins left after the Great Eclipse War." His voice thickened with old pain. "That night didn't just take Kiara from us. It swallowed Dilruba too. As if she vanished into the air itself."
Yuvaan looked at him quietly, eyes softening.
"I know how much she meant to you," he said gently. "And I know you're not the kind of man who gives up easily. Wherever she is… I hope fate brings her back to you."
Varun's faint smile trembled at the edges—half hope, half exhaustion.
"I hope so too," he murmured. "One day."
A silence lingered, heavy yet tender. Two men—connected by loss, bound by love for the same woman in different ways—sharing a moment of vulnerability across a digital screen.
The call still hummed, but both knew the conversation had reached its emotional edge.
The screen faded to black, ending the call, but Varun remained seated for a moment longer—eyes lingering on the reflection of himself staring back from the darkened monitor. Memories drifted like smoke... Kiara's laughter, the battlefield glow of the eclipse, Dilruba's last promise before she was swallowed by shadow.
His hand clenched unconsciously.
Not again.
He wasn't losing hope again.
He rose from his chair and descended the old staircase into the Shetty villa basement, a place few ever entered anymore. The air was cool, laced with the scent of old parchment and incense. Candles flickered on stone walls, throwing restless shadows that danced like whispers of forgotten magic.
In the center of the room lay a charcoal-black map, ancient and veined with silver streams like constellations frozen on leather. It had stayed dormant for years—lifeless, unresponsive—just like the hope he tried so hard to hold onto.
Then suddenly…
Thrum.
A pulse of light crackled across its surface. Silver lines lit up one by one—alive, awakening like something breathing after a long sleep. A pinpoint of crimson flared near the northern mountains, glowing brighter… brighter… as if calling him.
Varun's heart stopped for one suspended second.
"Dilruba…" he whispered, breath unsteady. "After nine years… is this finally a sign?"
The crimson dot pulsed again — a heartbeat.
And for the first time in years, hope didn't ache… it burned.