Riyan had never hated the sound of temple bells until now.Each heavy toll seemed to hammer the urgency deeper into his chest, echoing through his ribs as he stood at the edge of the courtyard, half-hidden beneath the shade of a neem tree.
The morning had been long and restless. He had woken before dawn, his mind spinning with every risk, every possibility. By the time he left home, the ribbon—folded and refolded until the creases blurred into white scars—was already burning a hole in his pocket.
It wasn't just paper. It was his only bridge to her.
Inside, written in his hand:This cage won't hold forever. Trust me. Every step I take is toward you.
Simple. Direct. Words she could carry even if she had to burn them afterward.
Now, standing among worshippers and vendors and the sweet smoke of incense, Riyan forced his body into stillness. His posture was casual, head lowered, as though he were another devotee waiting for darshan. But his eyes never stopped scanning.
The crowd was thicker than he'd hoped. Old women clutching marigold garlands shuffled up the steps. Children darted between stalls, laughing. Men in crisp kurtas carried brass plates of offerings.
The noise was both blessing and curse. A blessing, because in chaos, a handoff could vanish unnoticed. A curse, because one wrong glance, one familiar face, could expose everything.
Kabir lingered a few paces away, pretending to haggle with a flower-seller. He shot Riyan a quick glance over the crowd, eyebrows raised in silent question: You sure about this?
Riyan gave the slightest nod. His hand brushed the ribbon in his pocket, grounding himself.
He couldn't back out now.
When her family finally appeared, he knew before he even saw her.
Her father's broad shoulders cut through the crowd first, the stiffness in his stride unmistakable. Her mother followed close, lips moving in prayer even as her eyes darted, sharp and watchful.
And then—her.
Ananya.
Wrapped in maroon, her hair pinned into a neat coil, her face composed into a mask of serenity. But Riyan saw it—the flicker in her eyes as they swept the courtyard, the tremor in her hands where they pressed together in prayer.
She was looking. Searching.
For him.
His throat tightened. The crowd could have been a thousand voices, a thousand footsteps, and yet, in that moment, all he could hear was the beat of her silence, the unspoken tether pulling them closer.
He let the moment stretch, forcing patience. Timing was everything. If he moved too soon, her father's hawk gaze would slice him down. If he moved too late, the chance would vanish.
Kabir's voice cut softly through the din as he passed by, low enough for only Riyan to hear. "South side railings. Less crowded. Two minutes."
Riyan gave a brief nod. The plan was moving.
He edged through the throng, careful, deliberate. He didn't rush, didn't force. Each step carried him closer to the southern edge of the temple courtyard, where the stone railings overlooked a patch of banyan trees. The crowd thinned there, pilgrims tying their prayer ribbons one by one.
He waited.
And then, as if the gods themselves had shifted the pieces, Ananya's family drifted toward the same side. Her father led with authority, her mother whispering mantras, guiding her by the elbow.
Riyan's heart pounded. His hand tightened on the ribbon, the folded secret that burned like a brand against his palm.
Ananya's steps slowed near the railings. She bent, as instructed, to tie her own thread of marigold. Her father's gaze was fixed on the sanctum doors, her mother busy arranging offerings.
For a breath, for a sliver of impossible time, she stood almost unguarded.
Riyan moved.
He passed behind a cluster of devotees, his body angled, his hand slipping free from his pocket. The ribbon lay hidden in his palm, crimson silk masking the fold of his words.
Ananya straightened—and her eyes caught his.
Just for a heartbeat.Enough.
Her breath hitched, though her face didn't falter. Her fingers brushed the railing, hesitated—then shifted just slightly outward.
Riyan brushed past, the motion seamless, like any other worshipper. His hand met hers for the barest fraction of a second—skin against skin, a silent explosion of contact—before the ribbon pressed into her palm and vanished with her folded hands.
The world didn't stop. The bells kept tolling, the incense kept burning, the crowd kept murmuring prayers. But for Riyan, the universe had narrowed to that single stolen touch.
He didn't linger. He couldn't.
He walked on, blending back into the flow of worshippers, forcing his breathing into steadiness. From the corner of his eye, he saw her slip the ribbon against her sari folds, hidden, invisible. Her face never changed.
But her eyes—those eyes had burned into him.
Kabir appeared at his side a few moments later, his voice taut. "You did it."
Riyan exhaled shakily, his hand still tingling from the brush of her skin. "We did it."
"Now we get out before someone notices," Kabir muttered, steering him away.
As he left the temple courtyard, the bells booming behind him, Riyan didn't look back. He couldn't risk it. But inside, beneath the rush of adrenaline and fear, something steadier took root.
The ribbon was in her hands. The words were with her.
And that was enough—for now.