The house had grown tighter around Ananya, as though her parents had sensed her quiet rebellions without proof.
The shutters were locked from the outside now. Her cousin lingered longer at her door. Even the tulsi plant duties were stripped from her, her mother muttering something about "temptations waiting outside."
Days blurred into a suffocating sameness: prayers at dawn, study under watch, meals eaten in silence. Her father's heavy gaze weighed on her like chains.
But inside, she clung to the secret ribbon, to the memory of the marigold she had tucked into the roots of the banyan tree. The signals were tiny flames in the dark, keeping her alive.
Still, the silence stretched too long. Each day without an answer scraped her nerves raw. Did he see? Did he know? Was it foolish to hope?
She would lie awake at night, staring at the faint rectangle of moonlight on the ceiling, lips moving silently around his name. Some nights, the ache in her chest felt like it would swallow her whole.
She needed proof. Something. Anything.
The first tremor came during an ordinary evening, when her cousin left the room abruptly to fetch something.
She was alone.
It shouldn't have meant anything. But in the silence, she heard it—soft, deliberate, against the shutter. A tap. Then another. Then three.
Her heart stopped.
Three.
Their code.
Her hands flew to her mouth to smother the gasp, her pulse roaring in her ears. She scrambled to the window, pressing her palms against the wood, straining to hear more.
But there was nothing. Only the wind.
It could have been anything—a branch, the night air, her desperate imagination.
And yet… her chest told her otherwise.
He was out there.
The next day, her cousin grew irritable, distracted. He muttered about "noisy nights" and complained that he hadn't slept well. Ananya kept her head lowered, her pulse racing.
If Riyan had been bold enough to come so close, then it wasn't her imagination. He was out there, braving the dark for her.
Hope bloomed so fiercely she had to bite her lip to keep from smiling.
The proof came two nights later.
It was near midnight, the house quiet except for her father's snores down the hall. She lay awake, staring at the shadows, when she heard it: the faint scrape at her shutter again.
Her pulse leapt. She sat up, breath held, and edged silently closer.
There was no voice—he was too smart for that—but when she pressed her ear to the wood, she heard the faintest scratch. Not random this time. Intentional.
Her trembling fingers reached for the narrow crack in the frame. Something thin slid through—paper, folded tight.
Her heart nearly burst.
She clutched it to her chest, trembling so violently she was sure the whole house would wake to her heartbeat. Then, moving quickly, she hid it under her pillow until she could read it safely.
The next morning dragged like eternity. Her cousin hovered more than usual, her mother scolding her for eating too slowly, her father watching from across the table. Every second felt like a test, a cruel game to see if she could keep the secret burning in her chest.
By nightfall, her hands shook so badly she nearly dropped her lamp. But at last, alone in her room, she unfolded the paper under the weak glow of moonlight.
His handwriting leapt out at her—familiar, sharp, urgent.
Her throat closed as she read.
"I saw your signal. I see you. I always will. Don't give up. Whatever cage they build, I'll break through. Next time—wait for me at the banyan. I'll find you."
The words blurred through her tears. Her chest felt as though it might crack open from the force of it.
He had seen her. He had answered.
She pressed the paper to her lips, to her cheek, to her heart. For the first time in weeks, she allowed herself to cry openly—not from despair, but from the wild, trembling relief of knowing she wasn't alone.
But joy carried danger. She knew that.
Every creak of the door, every flicker of her mother's lantern in the hallway, every pointed glance from her cousin felt sharper now, threatening to shatter her fragile bubble.
She hid the note under the floor mat, her hands steady despite the storm inside her. She whispered to the darkness, to him, "I'll be there."
And then she lay back, heart pounding with reckless hope, knowing the next step would be the riskiest yet.
Meanwhile, outside her shutter, hidden by shadows, Riyan pressed his forehead to the wall. He had left the note. He didn't know if she had taken it, if she had seen, if it had even reached her.
But when he heard the faintest sound of her breath catch on the other side—soft, trembling, like a sob swallowed in the night—he let himself smile.
She had it.
She knew.
The risk was worth it.