London, Present Day
The fog outside her window didn’t lift until noon, and even then, it only thinned—like a ghost reluctant to let go.
Ira Awasthi sat curled on the armchair, knees hugged to her chest, a steaming mug of black tea balanced carefully between her palms.
Her ivory skin looked even paler under the gray light filtering through the curtains, her black hair tied in a messy knot at the nape of her neck. But it was her hazel green eyes, those rare and unsettling orbs, that stood out—calm, almost serene—yet always haunted.
Silence wasn’t new in this apartment. It greeted her each morning like an old friend and lingered long after she fell asleep.
Except she didn’t always sleep. Not well, at least.
On the table in front of her, an envelope lay unopened—cream-colored, with no return address. She didn’t need to open it to know what it was.
The same letter came every six months: confirmation of another scholarship installment, a lifeline that had funded her education, her housing, her carefully built independence.
Ira never questioned it out loud. But somewhere inside her, curiosity had planted seeds long ago.
The scholarship was awarded after she came out of the coma. A new name. A new school. A new city. They told her she had no surviving family, that she was lucky to have escaped the accident at all. That she should be grateful.
She was. She tried to be. But every now and then, when the air got too quiet and the past pressed a little too heavily on her lungs, she wondered if “grateful” was just a prettier word for “obedient.”
A soft knock at the door startled her.
She rose and padded across the wooden floor, barefoot and cautious. Through the peephole, she saw a familiar mop of wild curls and a too-bright smile.
Ruhi.
Opening the door, Ira raised an eyebrow. “You’re early. Coffee was for tomorrow.”
“Plans changed,” Ruhi declared, barging in with the energy of a small storm. “You looked ghostly in your texts. I figured you needed rescuing.”
“I don’t need rescuing,” Ira said, shutting the door behind her.
“No, but you do need human contact. And sunlight. And less tea.” Ruhi plucked the still-steaming mug from Ira’s hands and wrinkled her nose. “This again? Your taste buds are in mourning.”
Ira sighed but didn’t argue. It was easier letting Ruhi talk—it filled the room, pushed back the fog. She watched her best friend flutter around the apartment.
“How’s uni?” Ira asked, settling back into the armchair.
“Exhausting. I had to share a project with a guy who thinks feminism is a personality trait,” Ruhi groaned. “But enough about me. What about you? Any weird dreams again?”
Ira stiffened. The dreams. They had returned the past few weeks—stronger, more vivid.
Sometimes she saw herself running through a corridor lit by firelight, her bare feet bleeding. Sometimes it was a boy—just a glimpse, never a full face—but his voice echoed in her ears, low and possessive. And always, those eyes watching her, like a force that refused to let her go.
And then, always, the feeling of being wanted. Not in the way people want praise or attention—but in the way someone wants something they own. Like a caged bird, beautiful and breakable.
She swallowed. “Just noise,” she lied. “Fragments.”
“You say that every time.” Ruhi sat across from her now, eyebrows drawn. “Maybe you should speak to someone.”
“I don’t need a therapist.”
“No, you need a psychic,” Ruhi muttered. “You’re the most mysterious girl I know. You don’t even talk about your childhood.”
“I don’t remember it,” Ira said quietly.
And it was true. The doctors had called it selective memory loss.
The trauma of the accident had wiped out everything before she was ten. She remembered waking up in a hospital bed, the sterile smell, the beeping machines, and a nurse calling her Ira. Just like that—her name was different, her identity scrubbed clean. She’d accepted it. What else could a ten-year-old orphan do?
“I just think,” Ruhi said gently, “you deserve answers.”
“I’ve survived fine without them.”
“But is fine all you want to be?”
The question hung between them, raw and uninvited.
Ira looked out the window. The mist was thickening again, as if trying to claw its way back inside.
“Do you ever feel like you’re being watched?” she asked suddenly.
Ruhi blinked. “Here? In this apartment?”
“No. Not here. Just… in general.”
Ruhi tilted her head. “That’s oddly specific.”
Ira rubbed her wrist where a faint scar sat, like an old tattoo faded by time. She didn’t remember getting it. Didn’t remember much of anything before London.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m not alone. Even when I am. Like someone is waiting for me to remember something.”
Ruhi stared at her. “That’s either really poetic or really terrifying.”
“Probably both.”
Ruhi sighed, clearly switching gears. “Anyway, don’t forget the party this weekend. You are coming.”
“I hate parties.”
“I know. That’s why you need to come. You need to live a little, Ira.”
Live a little. Ira wasn’t sure she ever had. Her life had been structured, safe, and clean. She had everything—an apartment, an education, a future. But none of it felt like hers.
As Ruhi left that evening with a wink and a wave, Ira sat alone again, the envelope still unopened on the table. She reached for it, tore it carefully, and pulled out the papers. The usual—fund confirmation, transaction notice, and the signature.
No name. No contact number. Just the same faceless foundation that had given her life a second chance.
She folded it back and stared at the mist outside.
Somewhere in that fog, a ghost was watching her. She could feel it. Not malicious. But dangerous in a way she didn’t yet understand.
Across the city in Delhi, in a room cloaked in shadows, Ishaan Malhotra sat in silence.
The world outside buzzed with life, but his was frozen in a single moment—thirteen years ago. The day she was taken. The day everything warm inside him turned to ice.
The walls were bare now. He had removed every distraction. Every color. Every photograph.
Except one.
A small, worn picture tucked inside his wallet, edges curled, colors faded. A girl, ten years old, in a white dress. Her head tilted shyly to the side, those rare hazel green eyes glimmering like forest light through glass. It was the only part of her he remembered clearly—those eyes.
His Niyati.
She had been his before she ever knew what that meant. Before she could understand ownership or attachment or the madness of love.
He had chosen her.
HE had watched her take her first steps in his garden,held her hand when she scraped her knee, whispered stories into her ears during nights, stood like a shield when strangers tried to talk to her.
She had been his world.
And then one cruel moment had stolen her. A crash. Flames. A coffin far too small.
Or so they told him.
He had never seen the body. They said it wasn’t recognizable. That it was mercy he never had to witness her like that.
But mercy felt like a curse when it left questions behind.
He never forgave them for it. His parents. The relatives. The world.
He didn’t speak much anymore. Not unless necessary. Not unless it was to Ruhaan, the only one who dared speak freely around him.
But when he did speak, his voice was cold enough to cut steel.
Because the only softness he had ever possessed had been buried with her.
He opened a drawer and pulled out a small box—worn, aged, sealed with a lock he had memorized like scripture. Inside it: her hairclip, a broken bracelet, a drawing she once gave him.
He stared at the items like they were sacred.
His obsession had never dulled. If anything, it had fermented—turned darker, deeper, more patient.
She had been his light, and now she was the shadow that followed him everywhere.
Some nights, he thought he heard her voice. Others, he dreamt of those eyes—watching him, begging him, calling him home.
And on those nights, he stayed awake.
Because waking up hurt more than dreaming.
•••
•So how was the chapter?
•What do you think will happen when Ishaan will meet Ira?
I'm really sorry 😔 I'm bad at conversations if you'll ask something I'll answer it but I don't know what should I say now .
I hope you enjoyed it.
•°•°🦋Thankyou 🦋°•°•
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