The first light of dawn slid into the room, soft and merciless. Ananya had not slept. She lay curled against the wall, the folded slip of paper pressed flat against her chest beneath her blouse. Every time she closed her eyes, Riyan's words blazed behind them: I am here. I am with you. Wait for me by the banyan…
But with the morning came danger.
The note was both salvation and a noose—if her cousin or parents found it, everything would end in flames. She sat up, her hands still trembling as she pressed the paper deeper into her blouse. Her mind whirled: Where can I hide it? Where will they never look?
Her cousin stirred on the opposite cot, turning onto her back. The sound of her sigh made Ananya freeze, pulse racing. Slowly, carefully, she pulled her blanket over herself and leaned her face into the wall until the girl settled again.
By the time her mother's voice cracked through the house, sharp as ever—"Ananya, up! The tulsi hasn't been watered!"—Ananya had already rehearsed her movements a hundred times. She slid the note into the lining of her pillow and smoothed it over. It wasn't safe, not truly, but it was the only place she could reach quickly without fumbling.
She rose, brushing down her hair, schooling her face into obedience.
Her cousin's eyes, heavy with sleep, still tracked her. "You didn't sleep," she murmured, her tone too casual.
Ananya's heart stuttered. "The mosquitoes," she said quickly, avoiding her gaze. "I kept waking."
A faint hum, skeptical. Then nothing. But the weight of suspicion lingered.
The morning routines dragged her forward. She drew water from the well, her arms straining against the weight of the brass pot. She bent by the tulsi plant, dew soaking her fingertips. She swept the courtyard until her back ached. Every chore was performed under the watch of her cousin, who moved more lazily than usual but whose eyes never seemed to drift far from Ananya.
Ananya felt the pressure like a hand at her throat.
Inside, her father sat cross-legged with his newspaper, his expression stone-hard as ever. Her mother busied herself in the kitchen, but her commands came fast, each one snapping at Ananya's heels.
"Fetch the rice.""Clean the vessels.""Don't waste water."
Her cousin lingered by the doorframe, chewing idly on a piece of sugarcane, her gaze sharp and restless. "She's unusually quiet today," she remarked lightly.
"She's always quiet," her mother answered without looking up.
But Ananya could feel those eyes cutting into her, measuring her silence, searching for cracks.
She kept her head down, repeating Riyan's words silently in her chest. We will fight. We are not broken.
By midday, Ananya's nerves frayed to threads. She wanted nothing more than to slip into her room, to check that the note was still there, to trace her fingers over his words until her lungs could breathe again. But her cousin shadowed her constantly.
When she bent to wash the utensils, her cousin squatted beside her, idly rinsing a cup she didn't need to.When Ananya fed the cows, her cousin leaned against the post, arms folded, watching.When Ananya returned to the kitchen, her cousin followed, humming as though she had nothing better to do.
The walls of her house were not just wood and stone anymore. They were eyes.
Finally, the afternoon heat drove her parents to rest. The house grew heavy with silence, the kind that made every movement louder. Ananya slipped into her room, her heart galloping in her chest. She needed one breath, just one, with the note.
She moved to her pillow.
But a shadow fell across the doorway.
Her cousin leaned there, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.
"What are you hiding?"
Ananya's blood ran cold. "What?"
"You're different," her cousin said, stepping closer. "Since yesterday. Your eyes—always somewhere else. And last night… you were awake. I heard you moving."
Ananya clutched the edge of the pillow instinctively. "I couldn't sleep. That's all."
The girl narrowed her eyes, her gaze flicking toward the pillow for the briefest second. Ananya felt it like a knife. She forced herself to straighten, to meet her cousin's stare without flinching. "You think I have something? Search, then."
It was a reckless gamble, but boldness was the only mask she had.
Her cousin hesitated. The silence stretched. Then she smirked faintly, tilting her head. "If you're lying, I'll know. And when I do, Ma and Baba will know too."
She turned and sauntered out, leaving the air heavy with unspoken threat.
Ananya's knees nearly buckled. She sank onto the cot, her whole body shaking. The note burned against her pillow, dangerously close to exposure.
She pulled it out with trembling fingers and pressed it against her chest. Her cousin was suspicious now—too close, too sharp. The pillow wouldn't work anymore. She needed a new hiding place, one so unlikely no one would think twice.
Her gaze darted around the room. Finally, it landed on the old wooden box where spare firewood was kept. Her mother rarely touched it; her cousin would never bother.
Her hands worked quickly, fingers fumbling as she tucked the folded note beneath the rough logs. She pressed the wood back into place, dusting her palms to erase the disturbance.
Only when the paper was hidden did she allow herself to breathe again.
That night, as the house fell quiet once more, Ananya curled on her cot, her heart still thundering from the day's dangers. Her cousin's eyes haunted her, sharp and knowing. Every creak of the wooden beams, every shift of the wind, felt like discovery waiting to strike.
But beneath the fear, a fire had begun to grow. She had his words. She had hope. And even if the walls pressed tighter, she would not let them crush her.
No matter the locks, no matter the eyes that watch you.
She closed her eyes, clutching the memory of his handwriting, vowing to keep it safe, vowing not to break.
Her cousin's voice drifted in the darkness, casual yet cutting: "I'll be watching you, Ananya." And Ananya knew—the game of hiding had only just begun.