The rain had returned.
It drummed against the slanted tiles of Ananya's roof, a steady rhythm that almost drowned out the thud of her heart. She lay curled on her thin mattress, the forbidden book pressed flat beneath her pillow, as though the walls themselves might overhear her secret if she left it exposed.
Riyan's words still trembled in her chest. The way he had written them—urgent but steady, a quiet lifeline wrapped in ink—had kept her awake for two nights straight. She read them over and over in stolen moments, until she knew every curve of every letter by heart.
But the joy of having his message was tangled with a new, burning weight: how to answer him.
She couldn't write back. A note smuggled out would be impossible—her mother checked her clothes, her father demanded explanations for every scrap of paper. Any wrong move could destroy them both.
And yet… to stay silent felt like betrayal.
She needed him to know. Somehow.
The chance came three days later.
Her father had decided she was still to be kept in "restricted routine," but not entirely cut off. Books were acceptable. Supervised prayers were acceptable. Even sitting at the window—if she didn't speak to anyone outside—was acceptable.
That afternoon, as the rain thinned to a drizzle, Ananya's mother cracked open the window shutters to let in air. For a moment, the world outside blinked into view: the empty lane, the dripping leaves, the curve of the banyan tree far down the street.
And her breath caught.
She knew. She didn't know how, but she knew—Riyan would be watching.
It was foolish, reckless even, but the certainty ran through her like a current.
Her hand trembled as she pulled the curtain just enough to cover her mother's view of her, leaving the smallest gap open. From beneath her pillow, she slid the corner of his note—creased, folded, precious—and pressed it flat against the windowpane.
Not fully. Not obvious. Just enough that if someone out there was looking for a sign, they'd see the faint triangle of paper glinting white against the gray rain.
Her pulse hammered as her mother bustled in the background, arranging utensils. Every second felt like the floor could crack beneath her.
One minute. Two.
And then, movement by the banyan tree.
A figure—a boy with a rain-darkened shirt clinging to his shoulders—stopped as though rooted to the ground. For a heartbeat, she thought she had imagined him. But no. She knew that stillness. That gaze even at a distance.
Riyan.
Her throat tightened painfully, her vision blurring with sudden tears. Slowly, carefully, she drew the paper back, hiding it beneath her pillow again. Then she tilted her head just enough for him to see the smallest nod—barely there, but deliberate.
It was all she dared.
Her mother turned. "Ananya, what are you doing at the window?"
"Just the rain," Ananya whispered, her voice steady though her hands shook. "It feels less suffocating with it open."
Her mother frowned, then softened slightly. "Close it after a while. Don't get carried away."
"Yes, Amma."
Ananya lowered her gaze, clutching her pillow with both hands. The moment was gone. But the signal had been sent.
Riyan had not moved for nearly a full minute after she vanished from the window.
The rain plastered his hair to his forehead, but he didn't feel the cold. His chest heaved, every nerve alive with what he had just witnessed.
The flash of paper. The deliberate nod.
She had seen it.
She had seen his words.
It wasn't imagination—wasn't wishful thinking. It was real. She had reached back, breaking through the cage they'd built around her.
Riyan turned abruptly, walking fast down the deserted lane. He couldn't linger, couldn't risk being spotted staring up at her window. But every step felt lighter, as if the ground itself couldn't quite hold him down.
She was still fighting.
She hadn't given up.
And neither would he.
That night, Riyan lay awake again, but it was a different kind of sleeplessness. Not torment. Not fear clawing at him. But something warmer, steadier—like the first glow of dawn after endless night.
He pictured her face behind the glass, her eyes lit with silent defiance. He pictured the faint nod, small but thunderous in meaning.
It was enough.
No, more than enough.
It was a promise.
For the first time in weeks, Riyan let a faint smile touch his lips as he whispered her name into the dark. This time, the silence didn't feel cruel. It felt like an echo carrying back to him, a thread connecting them across locked doors and stormy nights.
Tomorrow, he told himself, he would find a way to send another note. Stronger this time. Longer. And maybe, just maybe, she would find a way to answer again.
The war wasn't over. But now, he knew—they were in it together.