COFFEE & COCAINE (The Unforgotten Bloosm)
There are lives that unfold like open books—
clear, visible, easily understood.
And then, there are lives that are written in silence.
Not because they lack stories,
but because their truths were never meant to be read.
In the quiet, frost-laced morning of a world still half-asleep,
within the pale walls of a hospital that has witnessed more endings than beginnings,
walks Aaggarttha Debberma—
a woman shaped not by softness, but by restraint.
She does not tremble before pain.
She does not falter before grief.
For she has learned, far too early,
that the heart—if left unguarded—becomes a fragile thing.
And so, she carries herself like winter itself—
calm, distant, untouchable.
Yet even winter, at times, must yield.
For within a room long forgotten by time,
where the air itself seems to have grown weary of waiting,
lies a woman who has not truly lived for twenty years.
Her breath, a fragile thread.
Her silence, heavier than any spoken sorrow.
And on a day that should have been no different from the last—
something stirs.
Not loudly.
Not violently.
But enough.
A flicker in stillness.
A tremor in the unseen.
A moment that passes as quickly as it arrives—
and yet refuses to be forgotten.
What is a moment, after all?
A mere passing of time?
Or the beginning of something that time itself cannot contain?
For Aaggarttha, it is nothing—
and yet, it is everything.
Beyond the quiet sanctity of healing hands and measured breaths,
there exists another world—
one not built on care,
but on control.
A world where power does not shout,
but settles—firm, unyielding—like a throne no one dares to question.
At its helm stands
Indrajeet Shrivastava—
a man whose name travels farther than his presence ever needs to.
He has not merely built an empire.
He has become one.
Through years carved with discipline and decisions weighed in silence,
he has woven a legacy so vast,
that it touches lives he may never see,
and alters fates he may never know.
And within this legacy, bound not by chains but by blood,
is Dakshinayan Shrivastava—
a man who walks not in freedom,
but in expectation.
He is composed, as all strong men are taught to be.
Measured, as all heirs are required to remain.
Yet beneath that stillness—
there lingers a question he has never quite answered.
A longing he has never quite named.
And though his world and Aaggarttha’s seem oceans apart—
separated by purpose, by circumstance, by design—
fate, it seems, is seldom concerned with such distances.
For what is distance,
when time itself conspires otherwise?
Their paths do not collide in fire.
There is no grand moment of recognition,
no sudden unraveling of truths.
Instead—
there is quiet.
A glance that lingers a heartbeat too long.
A presence that feels… strangely familiar.
A silence that speaks, though neither dares to listen.
And slowly, like ink seeping through untouched parchment,
their lives begin to overlap.
But beneath these gentle crossings lies something far more ancient.
Something untouched by reason.
Something unclaimed by time.
There are truths, you see, that are not buried to be forgotten—
but to be protected.
From whom?
From the world?
Or from those who might one day uncover them?
Time is often mistaken for a healer.
But time does not heal.
It merely… waits.
It waits for fractures to deepen.
For silence to weaken.
For the past to find its way back into the present—
not as memory,
but as consequence.
And when it does—
it does not ask permission.
It takes.
As Aaggarttha finds herself drawn toward questions she cannot explain…
as Dakshinayan stands at the edge of something he cannot yet see…
as the boundaries between what is known and what is felt begin to dissolve—
a truth emerges, not in clarity, but in weight.
This was never chance.
It was always meant to be.
A convergence—not of paths,
but of destinies long deferred.
A meeting—not of strangers,
but of stories left unfinished.
And at the heart of it all—
lies a stillness so profound,
it threatens to break.
