His pov
I was seated in my chamber, a series of reports laid open before me, each one detailing the progress of the fort being constructed along the shared boundary. The work was precise, methodical, and exactly as it was meant to be, yet my attention refused to remain anchored to it for long. My eyes moved across the pages, but my thoughts wandered elsewhere, returning again and again to something far removed from stone walls and military planning.
The visit had begun.
Princess Megha Priya had arrived earlier that day, accompanied by her attendants and guards, and the palace had already shifted into the careful rhythm that such occasions demanded. Every movement had become measured, every interaction deliberate, yet none of it held my focus the way it should have.
Because I was not waiting for the princess.
I was waiting for her.
The realization had settled within me long before the evening began to descend, and now, as the fading light stretched across the chamber, it sharpened into something more defined, more difficult to ignore. I would see her today—of that, I had become certain without fully understanding why—and when I did, there were things I intended to say.
I would explain myself.
That I did not go about offering my robe to just anyone, not carelessly, not without reason.
And more than that, I wanted to understand her.
Why it had mattered to her in the first place.
Why it had unsettled her enough to write as she had, with that quiet edge I had not been able to dismiss even after reading it more than once.
The memory lingered, bringing with it something unfamiliar, something that had not quite taken shape but refused to be ignored. It was not anticipation alone, nor was it simple curiosity. It was something more layered, something that settled beneath thought rather than within it.
I was still caught in that quiet tension when the door to my chamber opened without ceremony, breaking the stillness as Hriday stepped inside.
I looked up immediately, already prepared to ask, to question, to demand whatever reason had brought him there at this hour.
But he did not wait for any of that.
Without a word, he tossed something toward me.
I caught it easily, more out of instinct than intention, my attention shifting to the object in my hand even before I fully registered what it was.
A letter.
For a brief moment, I looked at it, my thoughts halting in place as recognition settled in with quiet certainty.
It was hers.
She had written again.
I lifted my gaze toward Hriday, but he had already turned away, as though his role in this had ended the moment the letter reached me. I knew better than to call him back. The palace was not at ease tonight, not with visiting guards within its walls, and his attention would be required elsewhere.
But I did not need him to stay.
Because my focus had already shifted entirely.
Before he could leave the chamber, I had broken the seal, unfolding the letter with a care that felt at odds with the urgency beneath it. The reports before me, the matters of the kingdom, even the anticipation of seeing her—all of it receded into the background without resistance.
Because now, in my hands, was something far more immediate.
She had written.
Hey soldier -
I had written to you again before this.
But I was told that only two letters are allowed within each half-moon, and so that letter was returned to me.
At the time, I felt… disheartened.
Not because it was denied, but because I had written it without thinking, without understanding what I was truly trying to say. I remember feeling unsettled when it came back, though I could not explain why.
Now, I think it was better that it did. I am clearer now than I was when I first wrote it.
The last time I wrote to you, I let something speak that I did not understand. I called it irritation, or perhaps something close to anger, because it was easier to name it that way than to question it further.
But I have thought about it since then. And I was wrong. It was not anger. It was not even something that came and went with the moment. It stayed.
Quietly.
In ways I did not expect.
I find myself noticing things I should not notice, remembering small details that have no reason to remain, and waiting—though I do not admit it.
But no longer confusing.
I know now that what I felt before was not misplaced. Only unnamed. I do not think I have the right words for it yet. And I would rather remain silent than name something incorrectly.
So I will not attempt to define it here.
When I understand it fully—when I can speak of it without doubt—I will write again.
Until then, I thought it was only fair that you know this much:
What I wrote before was not meaningless.
I just did not know how to say it.
— Your mute wife
Barkha
The letter settled open in my hands, the parchment still carrying the faint crease of travel, and for a moment I looked at the first line before allowing myself to read further.
Hey soldier,
I had written to you again before this.
She had. I knew.
A quiet, almost unexpected satisfaction moved through me at the thought, not sharp enough to name, but present enough to still the restlessness that had followed me all day.
But I was told that only two letters are allowed within each half-moon, and so that letter was returned to me.
Of course. The rule.
I had known it, enforced it even, and yet reading it now from her side, I found myself frowning slightly, not at the rule itself, but at the idea of her letter being turned away without reaching me.
There had been something she had wanted to say… sooner.
At the time, I felt… disheartened.
My grip on the parchment shifted just slightly.
I could almost see it—the moment she must have known the refusal, the quiet frustration she would not have spoken aloud.
And yet—
Not because it was denied, but because I had written it without thinking, without understanding what I was truly trying to say. I remember feeling unsettled when it came back, though I could not explain why.
A faint exhale left me. That sounded like her. Acting first, understanding later.
Now, I think it was better that it did.
My brows drew together slightly at that. Better? I read on.
I am clearer now than I was when I first wrote it.
Something in my focus sharpened then, the earlier impatience settling into something more attentive, more deliberate.
So, this—this letter—was not written in haste.
The last time I wrote to you, I let something speak that I did not understand. I called it irritation, or perhaps something close to anger, because it was easier to name it that way than to question it further.
A brief, almost reluctant smile touched the corner of my mouth. I remembered that letter. Too well. The edge in her words, the way she had masked something sharper beneath what she chose to name it.
But I have thought about it since then.
I did not move.
And I was wrong.
The words held me there because that was not something she would say lightly.
It was not anger.
The faint smile faded, replaced by something quieter.
It was not even something that came and went with the moment.
I felt the shift before I understood it, something in my chest tightening, not uncomfortably, but with a kind of awareness that had not been there before.
It stayed.
My gaze lingered on the word longer than necessary.
Quietly. In ways I did not expect.
The silence of the chamber seemed to deepen around me as I read, every other thought falling away without effort.
I find myself noticing things I should not notice, remembering small details that have no reason to remain, and waiting—though I do not admit it.
Waiting. The word settled differently. I leaned back slightly, my eyes still on the page, though my thoughts had already begun to move ahead of it.
She waited. The realization was not dramatic. But it was… something.
It is… inconvenient. And unfamiliar.
A quiet breath left me, almost amused, almost not. That, too, sounded like her. Resisting what she could not deny.
But no longer confusing.
I stilled.
Because that mattered. More than anything she had written before.
I know now that what I felt before was not misplaced.
Something in me shifted then, subtle but undeniable, as though a question I had not allowed myself to ask had just been answered without permission.
Only unnamed.
I read the line again. Slower. More carefully.
I do not think I have the right words for it yet.
My grip on the letter tightened, though not consciously. Because I knew. Or at least, I thought I did.
And I would rather remain silent than name something incorrectly.
Of course she would. Even now. Even here.
When I understand it fully… I will write again.
I exhaled, the sound quieter than I intended, my gaze still fixed on the parchment as though the words might shift if I looked away. So she would not say it. Not yet.
What I wrote before was not meaningless.
I felt that one more than I expected. Because I had not been certain. Because I had wondered—
I just did not know how to say it.
— Your mute wife
Barkha
Silence followed. Not from the room. From me.
The letter remained open in my hands, the words already read, and yet I did not move to fold it, did not set it aside.
Because the answer she had withheld… Was already there. Unwritten.
And for the first time since this had begun, I found myself without the urge to question it, to demand clarity, or to force it into certainty.
Instead, I leaned back slightly, the tension that had followed me for days settling into something quieter, something steadier.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched my expression.
“So that is what it was,” I murmured, more to myself than to anyone else. “She will write again”
I did not know how long I remained there.
Time had slipped quietly past me, unnoticed, as I read the letter again and again, my eyes tracing the same lines as though, with each reading, something new might reveal itself—some hidden word, some meaning she had chosen not to write the first time.
But there was nothing more. Only what she had already given. And yet, it was enough to keep me there.
The chamber had grown still around me, the light changing without my awareness, until the faint sound of footsteps broke through the silence, drawing me back with a slow return to the present.
Shiva.
I had not heard her enter.
She came close without speaking at first, her hand resting lightly on my shoulder, a quiet gesture meant more to ground than to startle. I looked up then, the shift from thought to reality taking a moment longer than it should have, as though I had been pulled out of something deeper than I had realized.
Had I been sitting like this the entire time?
She followed my gaze without asking, her eyes moving from me to the letter still open in my hands, then briefly toward the map spread across the table beside us. For a moment, she seemed to weigh the scene before her, as though deciding whether to question it, but then she let it pass, choosing instead the reason she had come.
“There is something I must tell you,” she said, and though her voice remained composed, there was a trace of something else beneath it.
I straightened slightly.
“I could not find her,” she continued. “None of the attendants had a mole on the left hand.”
For a brief moment, I simply looked at her.
I could see it clearly—the faint weight in her expression, the quiet disappointment she had not allowed to fully show, the sense that she had failed in something she had intended to accomplish without question.
But the urgency I had carried before— It was no longer there. Because now, it was different. She had written.
And in that letter, she had made something clear without saying it outright. She would write again. When she was ready.
Which meant—
She did not want to be found yet.
And for the first time since this had begun, I understood that fully.
I looked at Shiva, and then, without haste, I rose from where I had been seated. “It is alright,” I said, my voice steady, without the tension she must have expected. “You did well.”
She seemed almost taken aback by that, as though she had prepared for something else—for insistence, perhaps, or quiet frustration.
“But—” she began.
I shook my head slightly and placed a hand on her shoulder, stopping the words before they could fully form. “It is all right,” I repeated, softer this time, but no less certain.
She studied me for a moment longer, searching perhaps for something she could not quite name, before giving a small nod.
Without pressing further, she turned to leave.
And yet—
“Shiva.”
She paused at the doorway and looked back.
A faint smile touched my expression then, unguarded in a way I had not allowed before. “You will meet her soon.”
There was no doubt in the words. Only certainty.
She held my gaze for a moment, curiosity flickering across her face, but this time, she did not question it.
Instead, she smiled in return—light, knowing, though not entirely understanding—and inclined her head slightly before stepping out of the chamber.
I remained where I was. The letter still in my hand. But the restlessness that had driven me before had quieted into something else entirely.
Something patient.
Because now—
I was no longer searching for her.
I was waiting.
And this time, I knew she would come.
Write a comment ...