Hyderabad – June 20, 2025
The river moved slowly under the weight of mourning.
Hundreds of flowered urns bobbed on the surface, drifting gently under the morning light. Each one marked a name never found, a body never claimed, a life reduced to memory and mist. Incense curled in the humid air. Priests chanted softly. The sound of sobbing families rose like wind against stone.
Anushree stood among them—still, silent, dressed in white. She didn't speak. She didn't cry. She simply watched the water carry away what no one could hold.
Beside her sat Naveen, quiet as always, his hands clasped in front of him, head bowed.
Reporters stood at a distance, unusually respectful. The world had already heard Rathnadevi's confession. Her resignation speech—broadcast live—had stunned a nation. She had named names. Told the truth.
The fallout had begun instantly. Half the aviation ministry was gone. Three airline executives arrested. The journalist's body discovered in a shallow grave near Delhi.
Protests. Vigils. Investigations.
But none of that mattered here.
Here, there were only the urns.
"You never told me," Anushree said suddenly, not looking at him. "Why you came to help."
Naveen didn't respond for a long moment. Then, softly:
"Because my parents and little brother were on that flight."
Anushree turned to him, stunned. Her mouth opened, then closed.
She studied his face now—more than the calm, more than the quiet resilience. She saw the ache behind his eyes, the kind of grief that never had a shape, only weight.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
He looked out at the river.
"Because it wasn't about me. Not anymore. I didn't want pity. I didn't want to be a victim. I just…"
He exhaled.
"I just wanted to help someone. Anyone. Because I couldn't help them."
A long silence followed.
The wind shifted. A white flower drifted from a tree and landed on the water.
Anushree looked down at her hands, then back at him. Her voice, when it came, was soft and certain.
"Maybe in helping me," she said, "you did."
Naveen didn't reply.
But for the first time, since the crash, since the lies, since the loss—he allowed himself to grieve.
And beside him, so did she.