The storm had passed, but the streets still glistened with leftover rain, the puddles catching the last light of evening. Riyan walked with purpose, his steps quick but not careless, the memory of Ananya's nod etched into his veins like fire.
For days he had survived on whispers, rumors, half-truths about her confinement. Each rumor was a knife, each unanswered question a fresh wound. But now—finally—he had seen her. She had seen him. The signal had passed, undeniable. She was with him still.
The knowledge didn't ease the weight—it sharpened it. What good was knowing she believed, if the walls around her were growing higher every day? What good was one nod through a window if her parents kept tightening the leash until she couldn't even breathe?
He needed more.They needed more.
Kabir's workshop smelled of oil and dust and rain-soaked wood. The cluttered benches, the scatter of tools, the half-finished model car in the corner—it was their unofficial war room.
Kabir looked up as Riyan entered, dripping from the misty drizzle. "You look like you've seen a ghost," he muttered, wiping grease off his hands.
"I saw her," Riyan said, breathless but steady.
Kabir stilled. "Where?"
"Her window. She showed me my note. She nodded. She knows."
For a moment, Kabir's usual sarcasm melted. He leaned back against the bench, his jaw working. "So it got through."
"It got through," Riyan confirmed, his voice low, certain. "She's still fighting. She hasn't given up."
Kabir exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair. "Then it's time we stop tiptoeing. The window trick won't hold. Her parents will catch on if she slips again."
Riyan nodded, his pulse quickening. "I know. That's why we need a bigger move. Something that'll break through their walls, something they can't erase with more locks and more suspicion."
Kabir raised an eyebrow. "Careful. That sounds like you're about to suggest something suicidal."
"Not suicidal," Riyan said, a faint smile ghosting his lips. "Necessary."
They sat, shoulders hunched close, voices lowered to whispers as the workshop grew darker.
"What's your idea?" Kabir asked finally.
Riyan's hands tightened around the edge of the table. "Her father won't let her out except for prayers. That temple is the only place they allow her a breath of air. If she can't come to me, then I have to find a way to reach her there."
Kabir whistled softly. "Risky. Crowds, eyes everywhere, family practically glued to her side."
"Exactly. And because of that, they'd never expect a move there. They think the crowd protects her. But in a crowd…" His eyes hardened. "…a whisper can pass. A hand can press something small and unseen. It's the only chance."
Kabir leaned back, studying him. "So what's the play? Another note?"
"Not just a note," Riyan said. "Something stronger. A message that tells her I'm not just waiting—I'm planning. That I'll fight through this, no matter how long it takes. She needs hope big enough to carry her through the cage they're building."
"And if her father sees you?" Kabir asked. "Or worse, if one of the neighbors spreads it? You'll be painted as the villain again. They'll tighten her chains even more."
Riyan met his gaze, unflinching. "Then I'll take that risk."
Kabir studied him a long moment before sighing. "I should've known you'd say that."
The plan began to take shape in broken fragments, like pieces of a puzzle scattered across the dusty floor.
Kabir would help distract, create cover in the temple crowd if needed. Riyan would prepare the message—short, hidden, disguised in something ordinary. No obvious scraps of paper that could be plucked from her hand and read aloud.
"Think practical," Kabir murmured, sketching rough shapes on a piece of cardboard. "Something small. Something foldable. Something that won't scream forbidden love if her father glances at it."
"A prayer ribbon," Riyan said suddenly.
Kabir blinked. "What?"
"They sell them at the temple stalls. People write wishes on them, tie them to the railings. No one would question if I handed her one. They'd think it's ritual."
Kabir's eyes lit faintly. "Clever. Write inside, fold it tight. Looks holy, but it's yours."
"Exactly," Riyan said, the spark in his chest growing. "If I can get it into her hand—just for a second—it'll be enough."
Kabir drummed his fingers against the bench, then gave a short nod. "Alright. Then we make it happen. But you'll need timing. Distraction. One mistake and it blows up."
"I'll make it work," Riyan said, his voice like iron.
The rain outside deepened into nightfall. The two boys worked in the dim glow of a single bulb, scribbling possibilities, rehearsing steps. Every version of the plan seemed fragile, easily breakable, but the determination in Riyan's eyes didn't waver once.
Kabir finally leaned back, folding his arms. "You know, sometimes I wonder if you're brave or just insane."
"Both," Riyan said quietly. "But it doesn't matter. She's alone in there, fighting every breath. I can't let her think I've disappeared. Not now."
Kabir gave a dry laugh. "I'll regret this, won't I?"
"Probably," Riyan said, and for the first time in days, his lips curved into something almost like a grin.
They both sat in silence then, the storm of planning settling into the steady beat of commitment. Outside, the rain whispered against the shutters, like an omen of the risk they were about to walk into.
But for Riyan, the sound wasn't a warning. It was a promise.
Tomorrow, the game would shift.