The answer

His pov

Hriday had come and gone with his usual quiet efficiency, leaving the letter behind as though it carried no more weight than any other piece of parchment that passed through my chamber. The door had barely settled back into stillness before my attention shifted entirely to what he had placed in my hands.

I stood there for a moment, doing nothing.

The seal remained unbroken, yet it felt as though the contents had already begun to press against the edges, demanding to be known. It was a strange thing—this restlessness that had taken hold of me since I had been told the letter had arrived. I had faced battlefields with steadier breath than this, had made decisions with far greater consequence without this quiet hesitation settling beneath my ribs.

And yet, here I was, delaying the simplest of actions.

Because I knew, in some instinctive, unspoken way, that this would not be like her last letter.

She had been composed then, measured in her words even when they carried meaning beyond what was written. This time, I could not expect the same restraint.

What now?

The thought had been lingering since morning, circling without resolution. What would she make of it? What would she say? Whether she would dismiss it as a necessity or hold it with the weight it perhaps did not deserve.

Or worse, whether she would not dismiss it at all.

I exhaled slowly, finally breaking the seal.

The parchment unfolded beneath my hands with a softness that did little to quiet the tension that had settled within me. My gaze dropped to the first line, and there it was—.

Hey, soldier—

Or should I say, Aditya,

A breath left me, quieter than I intended.

She had never written to me like this before. There was a familiarity here, an ease that did not ask permission to exist.

She chose my name. Not formally. Not carefully. Just… as if it belonged there.

And I realized, with a strange, steady warmth, that I had wanted this.

More than I had admitted.

I hope I am not disturbing you, and that this letter does not find you in the middle of rescuing someone.

A faint smile pulled at my lips before I could stop it. So she had thought about it. Not just the moment itself, not just what I had said, but what it meant—how it might repeat, how it might exist beyond that single instance.

She had carried it with her.

You seem to have a talent for appearing exactly where you are needed, saying exactly what must be said, and leaving behind just enough impact to be remembered a little longer than necessary. It is quite admirable, truly. Not everyone can manage such precision without practice. I know, I know—it is your duty.

I leaned back slightly, the parchment still open in my hands, my gaze lingering on the line longer than necessary. There was no dismissal in her words, no attempt to reduce it to coincidence or obligation. She had seen it for what it was, understood it enough to name it, even if she chose to wrap it in sarcasm.

And yet… she kept writing.

Which brings me… to a question…

How often?

My fingers tightened slightly against the edge of the letter. So this is where it had led her. Not away from it. But deeper into it.

She did not let it pass. She did not push it aside as something insignificant. She stayed with it long enough for it to begin troubling her.

And that—

That was not indifference.

How often have you done that? No, I am not asking about helping others—that, I understand, is a soldier’s duty. I mean the part where you claim a random girl as your wife.

A quiet breath escaped me, almost a laugh, though it did not quite reach that.

There it was. She had said it exactly as she felt it. And instead of pushing me away from the moment, she had brought me back into it, forced me to stand in it again—this time not as instinct, but as something to be answered for.

I should have felt accused.

I did not.

I felt… seen.

Because you did not hesitate.

A situation unfolds, a crowd gathers, and before doubt can even settle, you have already decided what I am to you.

Your wife.

Just like that.

The words settled heavier this time. Not because they were new. But because now I knew she had carried them. That single moment, which had passed so quickly for me, had not ended where I thought it had.

It had stayed with her.

You said it as though the word had been waiting for you, as though it belonged there, as though it cost you nothing at all to place it so firmly in the air.

It was very convincing.

Annoyingly so.

This time, I did smile. Fully. Because beneath the irritation she tried to hold onto, there was something else—something she had not quite managed to hide. She had believed it.

Even if only for a moment.

And that truth lingered between her words, unspoken but unmistakable.

Which makes me wonder—does it always come to you that easily, or was I the fortunate recipient of a particularly well-delivered moment?

You see, it would be rather unfortunate if this were something you repeated whenever the situation demanded a quick solution. One would hate to think that such a word is simply… convenient in your hands.

So, for your own sake, allow me to suggest something.

I lowered my gaze slightly, reading that line again, slower this time. So she wondered. Not about the situation.

About me.

About whether what I had said belonged to her… or to anyone.

And that question—quiet, sharp, almost unwilling—carried more weight than anything else she had written so far.

Because it meant she cared where it belonged. And also a suggestion. I laughed this time. What is it?

Do not make a habit of it.

A soft exhale left me, steadier now. There was no command in it. No authority, a sarcastic suggestion.  And yet, I found myself taking it exactly as that.

Because beneath the words, what she truly meant was unmistakable.

Do not say it to anyone else. I won’t.

And more importantly, do not go around offering that same robe and that same claim to another unsuspecting woman. One temple misunderstanding is quite enough for its reputation, and I would prefer not to hear that it has acquired a history.

I shook my head slightly, in a no, as if she would see the amusement returning, but it did not lessen the warmth that had settled somewhere deeper.

She was trying to keep it light and trying to frame it as irritation, as inconvenience, as something trivial enough to dismiss. And yet she had written all this. Taken the time. Let it spill.

Also, if you continue telling strangers that your wife has a tendency to fall into trouble, I assure you, fate may take that as an invitation to prove you right again.

My gaze paused again. Not on the warning. But on the word. Your wife. She had written it again. Not by accident. Not carelessly.

And this time, she had not questioned it.

And I have no intention of cooperating with such patterns.

So take care of that.

And, since you seem to require occasional reminders, take care of yourself as well.

Something in me quieted completely then. A stillness that felt… certain.

Because for all her resistance, for all the sarcasm and deflection, she had still ended here.

With concern.

With care.

With something she had not tried to hide at all.

—your mute wife, who knows when to speak

Barkha

I let out a slow breath, my thumb brushing lightly against the edge of the parchment as if grounding myself in something real.

She knew. Maybe not fully. Maybe not in the way I did. But she knew enough. Enough to write this. Enough to question. Enough to claim, even while pretending not to. And for the first time since that day, I felt no need to wonder what it had meant to her.

Because this—

This was my answer.