As the day unfolded, morning braced itself along the temple gates. The air was filled with the sacred scent of sandalwood, mingling with the freshness of flowers and garlands, each note weaving its own gentle perfume.

Diyas flickered softly, casting a golden glow that painted a perfect picture of divine grace, serene and timeless.

Yet, at the same time, on the other side of the day, a chaotic and dramatic play was already unfolding.

Her pov.

"Aah... der ho rahi hai..." I muttered under my breath, clearly irritated as one small trouble after another delayed me from reaching the mandir.

(Ah... I'm getting late...)

Kavya stood by the wooden doorway, her arms folded, her silence heavier than words. The soft morning light filtered in, casting faint shadows across the mud-plastered walls, and her steady gaze alone was enough to make me uneasy.

"Bas ek pal!" I called out, hurrying toward her—only for my odhni to snag against the carved edge of a wooden chest.

"Uff... yeh odhni bhi na..." I sighed, tugging at it impatiently.

(Ugh... this veil too...)

I had barely taken two steps when suddenly—

"Ruko... mera jhumka kahan hai?" My hand flew to my ear at once.

(Wait... where is my earring?)

"Hey Bhagwan..." I whispered, panic rising in my chest.

(Oh God...)

"Woh jhumka maine itni mushkil se liya tha... do din tak bazaar ke chakkar lagaye the. Sunaar toh poora ek mohar maang raha tha... bade jatan se kam karwaya tha maine."

(I bought that earring with so much effort... I went around the market for two days. The goldsmith was asking for a full coin... I had to bargain hard to lower the price.)

I glanced around anxiously, as if the tiny jhumka might appear on its own—completely unaware that Kavya was now watching me as though I had lost all sense.

When I finally gathered my wits, I began searching properly. After nearly TEN minutes of turning things over, I found it... lying quietly beside my charpai, as innocent as could be.

"Mil gaya!" I exclaimed, quickly picking it up.

(Found it!)

"Tum na, sach mein..." Kavya's voice came from the doorway, filled with disbelief.

(You, honestly...)

I looked up at her, giving a sheepish smile as I fixed the jhumka back into my ear, adjusting the folds of my odhni in haste.

"Kahan kho gayi thi?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

(Where were you lost?)

"Main nahi kho gayi thi, mera jhumka kho gaya tha!" I replied, a little offended.

(I wasn't lost, my earring was!)

Kavya rolled her eyes.

"Jaldi chalo. Pehle gurukul jaana hai. Devi ji, ab aap acharya ho... phir bhi itni der?"

(Come quickly. We must go to the gurukul first. Madam, you are a teacher now... and still this late?)

"Haan haan, aa rahi hoon!" I said, grabbing my things in a hurry.

(Yes, yes, I'm coming!)

I secured the wooden door, the iron latch falling into place with a dull clang. Once... then again, just to be certain.

After all, living alone in a small dwelling is no simple matter.

"Chalein?" Kavya called out, impatience clear in her tone.

(Shall we go?)

"Haan!" I replied, hurrying to her side.

(Yes!)

Soon, we were on our way—walking along a narrow, dusty path. The early morning breeze brushed past gently, and somewhere in the distance, temple bells echoed through the stillness.

And don't laugh—

Kavya and I... both teachers now, in the same gurukul.

It had always been her dream.

Mine?

Not quite.

Still... a quieter life has its own kind of mercy.

Raj-darbaar ki kathin seva se toh yeh jeevan behtar hi hai... kam se kam chain ki saans toh milti hai.

(This life is still better than serving in the royal court... at least I can breathe in peace.)

The mandir soon came into view, standing calm and timeless, untouched by the noise of the outside world. The faint scent of incense and burning ghee lamps lingered in the air, wrapping everything in quiet devotion.

We stepped inside, and at once, everything felt still... sacred.

After offering our prayers, we turned to leave—

But then—

Something caught my eye... something that didn't quite belong there.

"Tum chalo, main aati hoon," I said to Kavya.

(You go, I'll come.)

She narrowed her eyes slightly, as if she wanted to question me—but said nothing and walked ahead.

And just like that...

I was alone.

For a brief moment, even the temple bells seemed to fade—

As my gaze settled on it.

A small, neatly folded piece of paper lay near the idol, placed with quiet care.

A patr.

( a letter)

Or perhaps... a message meant for the divine.

I took a slow step forward.

Then another.

My fingers twitched slightly at my side.

"Nahi... bilkul nahi. Yeh uchit nahi hai..." I murmured softly.

(No... absolutely not. This isn't right.)

"Arre, bas dekhne mein kya haani hai? Sirf ek jhalak hi toh..." another thought slipped in, quieter... tempting.

(Oh come on, what harm is there in just looking? Just a glance...)

"Tum sach mein apna vivek kho baithi ho kya? Yeh kisi ka niji patr hai!" I frowned, almost scolding myself.

(Have you truly lost your sense? This is someone's personal letter!)

"Haan toh? Bhagwan ke liye hi toh likha hai... unke saamne rakha hai... phir chhupa kya?" came the soft counter.

(So what? It's written for God... placed before Him... then what is there to hide?)

I paused.

"...baat toh sahi hai," I whispered under my breath.

(...that is a fair point.)

Before my thoughts could argue any further, I bent down and picked it up.

"Bas ek jhalak..." I murmured.

(Just one glance...)

Carefully, I unfolded the letter.

The paper was simple, slightly worn... yet folded with care.

And as my eyes moved over the first few lines—

I stilled.

Something about the words...

The depth within them...

The quiet sincerity—

It held me there.

My gaze lingered, as if I were meant to feel them, not just read them.

"Yeh... kaisa patr hai?" I whispered faintly.

(What kind of letter is this?)

A strange curiosity stirred within me—

soft...

yet persistent.

As though this was no ordinary prayer.

No ordinary person.

And before my thoughts could settle—

"Beta..."

The sudden voice broke through the stillness.

I flinched slightly and turned around.

"Baba..." I breathed.

His calm eyes rested on me... then shifted to the letter in my hands.

"Ajeeb baat hai... yeh patr ab tak yahin pada hai. Aam taur par aisa nahi hota."

(Strange... this letter is still lying here. That usually doesn't happen.)

And in that moment—

The quiet curiosity within me turned into something deeper.

Something that refused to let go.

She looked at the priest, her eyes wide with curiosity.
"Baba, kya aap jaante hain?" she asked softly.

(Baba, do you know?).

The priest shook his head slowly.
"Nahi, beta... maine kabhi nahi dekha."

(No, child... I have never seen him.)

Every Friday, at the break of dawn, a mysterious person would enter the temple, light the diya, and vanish before anyone could see clearly. This had been happening for the last month. And the more she heard about it, the more curious she became.

She held the paper tightly in her hands and asked,
"Baba, kya main yeh patr le ja sakti hoon?"

(Baba, can I take this letter?)

The priest nodded, smiling, and placed his hand gently on her head.
"Jao beta, Bhagwan tumhari madad karein."

(Go, child. May God help you.)

The rest of the day, she couldn't stop thinking about it. Her mind kept returning to the temple, to the mysterious visitor, to the flickering diya. Finally, she decided—she would go the next friday, at the very first light of dawn.

..............................................................................................................................

The next Friday, before the sun had fully risen, I walked briskly along the narrow path toward the mandir. My thoughts refused to rest—memories of last week tangled with curiosity, longing, and the mystery of the letter left behind.

(Why can't I stop thinking about it? I need to see... or hear... or know something...)

The temple lay quiet, bathed in soft, pale dawn light. I stepped inside, expecting the familiar solitude—but no one was there. Not a single shadow stirred. The stillness pressed against my chest, heavier than the emptiness itself.

I was about to turn back, restless and frustrated, when I heard it: a sound so delicate, so haunting, it made my breath catch.

A melody—soft, flowing, like water over stones, rising and falling with a rhythm I could not resist. My feet moved before my mind could protest, carrying me toward it as if drawn by an invisible hand.

The notes wrapped around me, pulling me deeper into the temple's shadows, past flickering lamps, until I felt I was no longer walking... but drifting.

Then I saw it.

A figure, shadowed and still, standing with its back to me. My heart thudded painfully in my chest, and I froze, mesmerized, unable to move.

And then, as quickly as it appeared, the figure vanished. The echo of the melody lingered, fading, leaving me unmoored in the still air.

I blinked and shook my head. Reality returned in fragments—the lamps flickered, the air smelled faintly of incense, and my feet were at the very spot where the figure had been. I whispered to myself, almost in awe:

"Kon... abhi yahan tha?"
(Who was... just here?)

Before I could gather my thoughts, a voice broke the silence.

"Yu choro ke bhathi ese nazar kyun rakh rahi hai aap hum par?"
(Why are you staring at us like a thief at the furnace?)

"Yeh galat baat hai na?"
(This isn't proper, right?)

I spun toward it, heart racing. My eyes searched, trying to pierce the shadows—and there, just beyond the flickering light, stood the source of that voice.

His pov.

I watched her move, every gesture precise yet effortless, like the flicker of a flame in the still morning air. Even in the dim light of the mandir, her presence carried its own glow, quiet but impossible to ignore.

And yet... I had called her a thief. The words escaped me before I could temper them. I feared I had offended her, but the sharp arch of her brow, the slight pout of her lips, only made her more... alive, more real.

"Ah... achha, maafi chahata hoon Devi ji, aapko chor kehne ke liye..."
(Ah... well, I apologize, Devi ji, for calling you a thief...)

I took a step closer, studying the expression that flickered across her face: the frown, the shyness, the quick glances away, and the faint smile she could not quite hide.

" huh.. chor toh aap hai hum nahi" said after a pause, her voice tinged with sarcasm,( huh.. you're that thief not me".)

"toh shayad mandir ke saare saaye bhi aapke hain. Aise chhup kar ghoomte hain jaise mandir sirf aapka hai."
(then perhaps all the shadows of the temple belong to you too. You sneak around as if the temple is yours alone.)

I laughed lightly, genuinely amused—not annoyed.
"Ah, toh devi ji ke paas tez zabaan bhi hai," I teased, stepping into a shaft of sunlight. 

(Ah, so the lady has a sharp tongue too.)

The light revealed her features, and I froze for a fraction of a second—her eyes, the delicate curve of her lips, the hint of a dimple in her smile. Captivating.I smiled, amused by her wit, and shook my head.

" aap hume gussa dila rahe hai aab" she said with a little anger in her voice... which looked anything but that.. nope.. but she was really looking cute.

( you are making me angry now")

" maaf kare hume devi ji" I said softly.
(Please forgive me, my lady")

Her lips curved slightly, almost a smirk.
" jaiye maaf kiya .. hum bade aache hai iseliye "she said with a small smile yet playful. ( ok I forgive you.. I'm very good person that why")

I stepped closer, sunlight catching my features, careful not to crowd her.
"Haa... dhanyawad," I said softly, a little embarrassed.
(Yes... thank you.)

I hesitated for a moment, then tried to ask gently,
"Aur... aapka naam kya hai?"
(And... what is your name?)

She paused, lips curling into that faint, mysterious smile.
"Naam? Shayad... zaroorat nahi," she said lightly, taking a step back.
(Name? Maybe... it's not needed.)

I frowned slightly, trying to read her eyes, but she simply moved toward the temple door. My heart thumped as I followed her with my gaze

We shared a quiet moment, letting words and silence mingle, letting the flicker of light, the scent of incense, and the lingering melody weave around us. I felt a strange pull, a desire to linger in her presence longer than ever before. Yet I dared not ask outright.

Finally, I took a small, cautious breath.
"Kya hum phir milenge?"
(Will... we meet again?)

Just as she reached the doorway, she turned her head slightly, her voice soft, almost like a whisper carried by the sunlight.

Her gaze met mine, thoughtful, sunlight catching the edges of her hair.
"Jab bhagwan chaahein... shayad... kabhi... aisa ho," she said softly, almost like a prayer.
(If the gods wish it... perhaps... it may happen in the future.)

" or Agar kismet chaahe... hum phir milenge. Agar nahi... toh... chalne do," she said, a playful seriousness in her tone.
( and If destiny wants... we will meet again. If not... then... let it be.)

And with that, she stepped out into the morning light, leaving me alone in the quiet temple, sunlight flickering on the diya, the scent of incense hanging in the air, and her words echoing in my mind.

I remained still, heart caught in my chest. From birth, I had never needed to pray. Fate, destiny, fortune—they had always answered. But now... now I silently prayed with all my heart, for this one chance not to slip away.

And then... she faded, leaving nothing but the echo of her presence—the scent of incense, the warmth of sunlight, and the memory of her smile that had rooted itself deep in my mind.

I stayed a while longer, listening to the quiet temple, aware that something extraordinary had begun—fragile, delicate, yet undeniable. A single melody, a fleeting glance, playful banter, and the memory of a whispered name... a tether between two lives quietly cast, waiting for the next meeting.

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