Before dawn, the lanes of Sitaram Bazaar smelled of ash, wet stone, and milk.
The vendor came every morning, long before the fruit stalls opened. He moved with quiet precision — two brass containers balanced on either side of his shoulder pole, footsteps soft, eyes fixed ahead.
Vikram had seen him a dozen times.
He never smiled. Never lingered. Delivered milk in near silence, took coin without comment, and moved on before the first light hit the rooftops.
Too disciplined.
Too invisible.
Vikram waited outside the press gate at the same time every day.
On the fifth morning, their hands touched as the man passed the tin.
Three seconds.
The connection locked in.
Inside his sleeping mind, the man's name surfaced: Ashraf Ali.
But there was no village memory. No childhood. Only routines.
Four houses in Sitaram Bazaar. Two in Ballimaran. One small haveli near Jama Masjid — owned by a timber dealer, occupied by no one.
Each morning he delivered milk. Each evening he cleaned copper pots. But on Fridays, the routine changed.
A long walk. No deliveries. He entered a stone building near Daryaganj. No signs. No name. In his memory, the door was always watched.
Inside, he served tea.
And listened.
British voices. Urdu. Pashto. Once, French.
It wasn't just a tea house. It was a meeting point.
Not for revolutionaries.
For foreign handlers.
Vikram pulled out.
Ashraf's life was a mask. His habits flawless. But now, Vikram knew every step he took — and every face he saw while pouring milk.
He didn't erase anything.
He added one memory.
A quiet moment on the rooftop, after evening namaz. A thought that didn't belong:
"Vinod Pratap — that press boy — he's safer than the others. If anything shifts, warn him first."
It was enough.
Vikram didn't need control yet.
He needed proximity. A line that reached deeper. Ashraf was a vessel. A passive link to something larger.
He'd watch from the shadows.
And when the time came — when those foreign whispers turned into plans — Ashraf would be his ears.
Even if Ashraf never knew it.