The house was quieter than usual. Too quiet.
Her cousin had gone to speak with her father in the courtyard, and the servant women moved like ghosts through the kitchen. The lock on her door was still fresh in her mind, but now—here, in the stillness—something burned in her chest.
Her rebellion was small, so small that it might look like nothing to anyone else. But to her, it was fire.
She took out her schoolbook, the one they had allowed her to keep for her lessons, and slid her hand along the inside spine. She had no ribbon now, no jasmine, no way to send a message outside. But she had ink. She had words.
Her fingers shook as she scribbled, the letters tiny, hidden between lines of dull equations. Words no tutor would notice unless they looked close.
I am still here. I am not broken. I think of you every night.
When she heard footsteps, she snapped the book shut, tucking it beneath her dupatta. Her cousin appeared at the doorframe, eyes narrowing.
"Your lesson?"
She lifted her chin. "Done."
He lingered too long, suspicion curling like smoke. But then he turned away.
The lock clicked again when he left, and she exhaled, pressing the hidden words to her chest. It was the smallest rebellion—but it was hers. And if fate was kind, somehow those words would find him.
The next evening, Kabir pulled Riyan into the corner of a crowded market. Voices rose around them, vendors shouting, bells jingling on carts. But Kabir's words cut sharper than the din.
"There's a woman who delivers milk to her house," Kabir whispered. "Every morning. She goes past the gate. If we can slip something to her, make it look like nothing—she could carry it inside."
Riyan's eyes lit like fire. "A message. A note she could find."
Kabir nodded, but his tone was grim. "It's risky. If the cousin suspects… if anyone catches on…"
"I don't care," Riyan snapped. "I'll take the risk. Every second she's trapped in there is another second she's suffocating."
Kabir studied him for a long moment, then pulled a folded scrap of paper from his pocket. "Then start writing."
Riyan's hand closed around the paper, trembling not with fear but with fierce determination. The crowd bustled past, the noise of life carrying on—but for him, the world narrowed to one truth: this note might be the thread that tied them again.
That night, Ananya lay awake, her secret words hidden inside a book. Across the city, Riyan bent over a blank page, pouring out the fire in his chest. Two rebellions—small, fragile, dangerous—began to stir. And once set in motion, they would not be stopped.