The house did not feel empty.
It felt paused.
Aarvi stood just inside the doorway, keys still in her hand, staring at the familiar living room as if it belonged to someone else. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in a dull evening light that didn't quite reach the corners. Dust motes hung suspended in the air, unmoving.
She shut the door softly behind her.
The sound echoed.
Too loud.
Her footsteps carried as she walked in, each one landing heavier than it should have. Her bag slipped from her shoulder and dropped near the sofa. She didn't pick it up.
The silence pressed against her ears.
Her father's slippers were still by the door.
She swallowed and looked away.
In the kitchen, the tap was dripping.
Slow. Steady.
Plink.
Plink.
She frowned faintly. She was sure she'd turned it off before leaving in the morning.
She twisted the knob tighter. The dripping stopped.
For a second.
Then resumed.
Plink.
Aarvi sighed, irritation cutting through the numbness, and turned it harder. This time it obeyed. She leaned against the counter, breathing slowly, palms flat against the cold stone.
Her chest felt tight.
Not pain. Not yet.
Just pressure.
She reached up and touched the pearl necklace resting against her collarbone. The police had handed it to her earlier, wrapped carefully, as if it were fragile or dangerous.
It felt warm now.
Warmer than skin.
She frowned and lifted it slightly, letting the pearls slide against her fingers. They were smooth, almost soothing. Her breathing slowed without her noticing.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
She ignored it.
The tap dripped again.
Plink.
Her jaw tightened.
"I turned you off," she muttered.
The sound didn't come from the tap this time.
It came from behind her.
She turned.
A glass of water sat on the dining table—one she didn't remember pouring. The surface of the water was trembling, tiny ripples spreading outward, as if something beneath it was breathing.
Aarvi stared.
The room felt colder.
Her pulse quickened. "Okay," she whispered. "I'm tired. That's all."
She stepped closer.
The ripples stilled the moment she reached out.
Her fingers hovered above the glass.
The pearl at her neck pulsed.
Once.
Aarvi snatched her hand back, heart racing.
"No," she said sharply. "No. Not now."
Her control snapped.
The pressure in her chest surged violently, grief crashing over her all at once—the unfinished conversations, the unanswered calls, the way her father had said always like it was a guarantee.
Her knees buckled.
She slid down against the wall, clutching the necklace as a sob tore out of her.
"I didn't even say goodbye," she cried. "You promised—you promised you'd come home."
Tears spilled freely, splashing onto the floor.
They didn't spread.
They rose.
Aarvi gasped.
Water lifted from the tiles, thin tendrils pulling upward like trembling fingers. The glass on the table tipped and emptied itself without spilling, its contents streaming into the air.
The tap burst open.
Water surged across the kitchen floor, stopping exactly at the doorway, as if held back by an invisible boundary.
Aarvi scrambled backward, breath coming in panicked gasps. "Stop—please—"
The water trembled.
Then collapsed.
Everything fell at once.
The flood vanished as if it had never existed. The tap shut itself. The glass lay empty and upright on the table. The floor was dry.
Aarvi stared, chest heaving.
Then darkness took her.
—
Far across the city, Rudra froze mid-step.
Pain slammed into his ribs like a fist.
He doubled over, gripping the edge of a railing as the world tilted sharply. Water pooled beneath his feet—thin, vibrating, reacting to something he hadn't summoned.
His breath came shallow.
"No," he whispered.
His shadow stretched unnaturally long.
He felt it then—something ancient and unmistakable.
Jal.
Broken.
His hands trembled.
"They'll feel it," he muttered. "Damn it."
The air around him thickened, heavy with judgment.
—
Aarvi woke to sunlight slicing through the curtains.
Her head throbbed.
She pushed herself upright slowly, confused. She was on the couch, a blanket pulled over her shoulders. Her clothes were dry. The house was quiet.
Normal.
She sat there for a long moment, heart pounding, replaying the memory.
The water.
The air.
Her tears rising.
"It wasn't a dream," she whispered.
Her phone buzzed again.
This time she answered.
"Ms. Mehra," the officer said gently. "We need to update you on the investigation."
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
"There were signs of tampering," he continued. "Brake failure wasn't accidental. We're reopening the case."
The room felt suddenly smaller.
"Someone did this?" she asked.
"We believe so."
The call ended.
Aarvi stared ahead, numbness giving way to something colder.
Intent.
—
Rudra knelt.
The shadows towered above him, heavier than before.
"You hesitated," the voice said.
His back burned where invisible marks had not yet healed.
"She awakened because you failed," it continued. "The first seal is broken."
Rudra's teeth clenched.
"She was grieving."
"She was vulnerable."
Another strike tore through him, sharper than the last. He bit down hard, refusing to scream.
"Kill her before Fire awakens," the voice commanded. "Or everything you lost will be meaningless."
Silence followed.
Rudra collapsed forward, breath ragged.
"I won't fail," he said hoarsely.
But his hands shook.
—
That night, Aarvi stood in front of her mirror.
Her eyes looked darker.
Older.
She leaned closer, studying her reflection.
Between her brows, faint but unmistakable, a mark pulsed softly—blue, like moonlight caught beneath skin.
Her breath caught.
Somewhere far away, something ancient smiled.
And the water in the world remembered her name.