The wait

His pov

It had been seven days since I received her last letter, and though there was nothing particularly remarkable about it at first glance, it lingered in my mind far longer than it should have. She had written of the approaching rain, of how she liked fritters when the weather turned, and almost casually, as though it were of no consequence, she had mentioned burning her finger while making them.

At the time, I had dismissed it as a small, insignificant thing, the sort of careless injury one forgets within hours.

But the thought had not left me.

Knowing her, it was unlikely to have been as minor as she had made it sound. She had an uncanny way of inviting trouble, of turning the simplest of tasks into something unnecessarily complicated, and the more I considered it, the less I believed that it had been a mere light burn. The image returned to me repeatedly—unbidden, unwelcome—carrying a faint, persistent irritation I could neither fully understand nor entirely dismiss.

It was foolish.

Why would she insist on doing such things herself? Is that why she hadn’t written any letters? Because her hand is probably burnt too much, so she can’t write. Why can’t she just focus while doing her work?

And yet, despite the irritation, I had found myself returning to those letters again and again, reading them with more attention than they warranted, as though somewhere between the lines there might be something more—something she had not written, but intended me to understand. Each time, however, my focus drifted back to that one detail, to the mention of her injury, until I could no longer ignore the quiet question that had taken root: how badly had she hurt herself?

The thought lingered longer than it should have, pressing at the edges of my composure until, without any clear decision, my steps carried me toward the chamber of Commander Hriday.

When I entered, I found him exactly as expected, absorbed in his routine, his movements steady and deliberate as he continued his push-ups with complete disregard for my presence. There was something almost predictable about it, as though the world could shift around him and he would remain exactly as he was, unmoved and uninterested.

I did not bother with preamble.

“Where is it?” I asked, my voice cutting cleanly through the space.

He did not so much as glance in my direction. “What?”

I stepped further in, my patience already wearing thin. “The letter.”

He continued without pause, as though the question had been of no significance. “What letter?”

A slow breath left me as I forced myself to be precise. “The letter sent by my—”

The word slipped out before I could catch it.

Wife.

For the briefest moment, it settled between us, unfamiliar and uninvited, and yet I did not allow myself to linger on it.

“—by Barkha,” I corrected, my tone steadier than the thought behind it.

That was enough to draw his attention.

He lifted his head then, finally looking at me, his expression shifting just slightly as he registered the change, the unspoken implication lingering beneath the correction.

“There is no letter,” he said.

I straightened at once, the thought settling into something more insistent as I looked at him. “Ask them,” I said, my tone firm despite the effort to keep it measured. “Ask if there is any letter.”

Hriday rose from the floor then, reaching for a towel and wiping the sweat from his face with unhurried ease, as though my urgency did not quite reach him. When he finally glanced at me, there was a trace of practicality in his expression. “If there were a letter for you, Aditya, it would have been sent to me directly.”

“That is usually the case,” I replied, unwilling to let it rest, “but what if they forgot this time?”

He lowered the towel, letting it fall carelessly onto the couch before reaching for his kurta. “They do not forget.”

I stepped closer, the insistence sharpening despite myself. “Even so, we should check. She does not take this long to write.”

For a moment, he simply looked at me, as though weighing whether this was worth the effort, whether my reasoning held enough substance to interrupt the order he trusted. There was a faint hint of reluctance in his gaze, a quiet acknowledgment that this was unnecessary.

And yet, after a brief pause, he gave a small nod.

“Fine,” he said. “Let us go.”

We stepped out together, and the contrast between us became evident almost immediately. I walked as quickly as I could without compromising the dignity expected of me, each step carrying a restrained urgency, while Hriday moved at a pace befitting his rank—steady, composed, and entirely unhurried, as though time itself would wait for him.

By the time we reached the soldiers’ letter department, my patience had already worn thin.

Inside, two employees were occupied with their work, one sorting through records while the other managed the incoming correspondence. At our arrival, both men straightened at once, bowing respectfully before offering their greetings.

Hriday acknowledged them with a brief nod before stepping forward. “Is there any letter for me?”

One of them moved toward a corner where a separate stack had been arranged—likely reserved for special or direct deliveries. He scanned through it carefully before turning back.

“No, sir.”

I asked again, unwilling to leave even the smallest space for doubt. “Check once more. Is there any letter for Aditya?”

The attendant glanced through the records again, though without much expectation this time, and then shook his head. “No, sir.”

For a brief moment, I said nothing. Instead, I looked at Hriday.

He met my gaze with a calm, almost infuriatingly neutral expression—so composed, so assured, as though this outcome had been inevitable all along, as though his earlier words had already settled the matter. There was no trace of surprise, no question, not even the faintest shift to suggest reconsideration.

See? That look seemed to say. I told you.

I did not respond.

Turning away, I began to leave, forcing my steps into something measured despite the restlessness tightening within me.

“Wait, Prince.”

The voice came suddenly, cutting through the space just as we reached the doorway.

We both turned back.

The attendant who had spoken hesitated for a moment before continuing, as though uncertain whether to proceed. “I think… a girl came earlier. She had a letter. For Aditya.”

My attention sharpened instantly. “Where is that letter?”

He faltered, the confidence from before slipping as he searched for his words. “There were already two letters recorded for Aditya in this half-moon cycle…”

“So?” I pressed, my patience thinning.

He swallowed, then continued, slower this time. “So, I sent her back.”

For a moment, the words did not fully register.

And then they did.

“How could you send her back?” The question left me before I could temper it, sharper than intended, carrying a force that made him step back immediately.

Before I could say more, I felt Hriday’s hand settle firmly on my shoulder—a quiet restraint, steady but deliberate.

“They are doing their duty,” he said evenly. “Following the rules.”

“Rules?” I repeated, the word edged with disbelief. “They returned a letter meant for—”

“Forgive me, Prince,” the attendant interrupted quickly, his voice tightening with unease. “I have only recently been assigned here. I did not know the letter was meant for you… and the Commander.”

My jaw tightened, my hand curling into a fist at my side as I shifted my gaze to the other attendant.

He bowed at once, as though anticipating the question. “I was posted in another department, Prince. I have just arrived here.”

Before I could press further, he added quickly, “The girl left only moments ago.”

I turned to him fully. “What?”

“She had just come, Prince,” he clarified. “Only a short while before you arrived.”

For a brief second, I glanced at Hriday, and he understood without needing the question spoken aloud.

“What was she wearing?” he asked.

The attendant hesitated, his expression tightening as he tried to recall, and I could see the uncertainty in his eyes. Many passed through here in a day; faces blurred, details forgotten.

But I did not wait.

“Answer.”

He flinched slightly, then shook his head. “Black—”

“No,” he corrected himself almost immediately. “Grey. She was wearing grey… with a deep maroon shawl.”

That was enough.

I turned without another word and strode out of the office, the restraint I had held onto slipping just enough to quicken my pace, while behind me, I could already hear Hriday following close.