The bells from the neighborhood temple drifted faintly through the morning air, solemn and steady. Ananya woke to the sound, the metallic chime cutting through her restless sleep like a reminder of what day it was.
Temple day.
Her parents never missed it now. Ever since the incident with the hidden book, her father's rules had grown sharper, his eyes colder. But temple visits remained—the one allowance he still clung to. Not for her sake, but for his own conviction that ritual cleansed shame, that prayers could tie a restless daughter down more firmly than iron chains.
For Ananya, the temple was no sanctuary. It was another stage, another prison—but it was also the only place where she could glimpse a horizon beyond these walls.
Her mother entered with folded saris draped across her arms, her voice brisk. "Wear this one today," she said, laying out a deep maroon fabric. "Simple. Respectful."
Ananya nodded silently, fingers tracing the soft folds. She no longer chose what she wore. She no longer chose much of anything.
Her father appeared in the doorway, adjusting his watch strap, his gaze as heavy as always. "Be ready by ten. We'll go as a family. And remember—no distractions. Head bowed. Eyes forward."
Her mother gave a sharp look as if to reinforce his words.
Ananya lowered her lashes. "Yes, Baba."
Inside, her pulse tapped out a restless rhythm. She had learned to answer softly, to let obedience cover the tremor in her voice. But beneath that calm, something else stirred—a quiet current of anticipation she dared not name aloud.
By mid-morning, the house was buzzing with preparation. Her younger cousins trailed through the hall, their laughter sharp against the stillness Ananya carried within. The smell of incense drifted from the puja room where her mother had lit the first sticks, thick smoke curling like a veil.
Ananya dressed slowly, every movement deliberate. She wrapped the sari with practiced fingers, pinned the pleats, smoothed the fabric. On the surface, she was dutiful. Inside, her thoughts churned with a single question: Will he be there?
It was dangerous to hope. Foolish, even. But she couldn't stop. Ever since the note in her book—the words she had read in the privacy of her midnight—the air around her had shifted. She wasn't as alone as her parents wanted her to be. Somewhere beyond the locked gates, Riyan was waiting. Watching. Planning.
The memory of his words burned like a secret flame under her ribs. And though she was terrified of being caught, terrified of one misstep undoing it all, she couldn't smother the wild thrum of possibility.
Her mother entered again, this time to inspect. The older woman adjusted Ananya's hair, tucking stray strands into place with sharp fingers. "Don't fidget," she scolded.
"I'm not," Ananya said softly.
Her father's voice came from the hall. "Hurry. We leave in ten minutes."
"Yes, Baba," she murmured.
The words tasted bitter, but she had learned the art of quiet submission. Obedience was her shield. Only in silence could she protect the secret beating inside her.
The car ride was suffocating. She sat in the back seat, flanked by her mother on one side, her aunt on the other, the smell of sandalwood and starch pressing in. Her father drove in silence, the radio off, the air tense with unspoken rules.
Through the window, the city blurred—streets slick with last night's rain, shopfronts opening one by one, the morning rush spilling into motion. For the others, it was just another ride to the temple. For Ananya, it was a passage toward possibility, though cloaked in fear.
She kept her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her nails dug faint crescents into her palms, a hidden anchor against the storm in her chest.
Will he risk it? Will I even see him?
The questions pulsed, each one sharper than the last. And still, beneath the dread, a thin thread of hope held.
The temple rose ahead, white stone washed clean by rain, steps slick and shining. Bells tolled, deep and resonant, each strike vibrating in Ananya's bones.
Crowds had already gathered—families clutching flowers, old women with baskets of offerings, children tugging at parents' hands. The air smelled of jasmine and smoke, heavy with devotion.
Her father parked close to the entrance, ushering them quickly out. "Stay close," he commanded.
Ananya obeyed. Her head bowed, her steps measured. Yet her eyes, beneath lowered lashes, scanned the edges of the crowd. Faces blurred—too many, too quick—but her heart thudded with every passing glance.
Was he here? Could he be?
She dared not linger. One searching gaze, one slip, and her father would sense it instantly. Still, she let her eyes flicker for shadows, for movement, for some invisible tether pulling her closer to the truth she needed.
Inside the temple, rituals unfolded with practiced rhythm. Her father led the prayers, offering flowers and coins. Her mother murmured mantras, hands folded tightly. Ananya followed, every gesture precise, but her mind was elsewhere.
Her throat tightened with every bell strike, every swirl of incense. The prayers her lips whispered weren't the ones her parents demanded.
She prayed not for purity. Not for forgiveness.
She prayed for strength. For one glimpse. For one impossible thread of connection that would remind her she wasn't alone in this storm.
When they circled the sanctum, her father's hand pressed firm against her shoulder, steering her like property. Ananya lowered her head, breathing shallow, her heart a wild bird in a cage.
Then, just for a moment, her gaze darted sideways. A movement at the far end of the crowd. A familiar posture, blurred by distance and shifting figures. Her pulse stumbled.
Was it—?
Her father's hand tightened, forcing her forward.
Her breath caught. She didn't dare look again. Not here. Not now. But deep in her chest, the flame leapt higher.
By the time they reached the outer courtyard, her hands were trembling inside her folded palms. Her mother noticed, frowning. "Hold steady," she hissed under her breath.
Ananya nodded quickly, masking the tremor with a practiced breath. But inside, the world was different. The dread hadn't vanished—it pressed against her ribs like always—but now it was threaded with something sharper.
Anticipation.
Hope.
A certainty she couldn't explain, as if the air itself had whispered to her: Wait. Watch. He is closer than you think.
That night, when the house quieted and the lights dimmed, Ananya sat by her window, the temple bells still echoing faintly in her ears.
She replayed every step, every glimpse, every breath of the day. And though her body sagged with exhaustion, her heart hummed with restless energy.
The cage was still locked. The watchful eyes hadn't lifted. But she was no longer waiting in darkness.
Something was coming.She could feel it.