The Return Of The Forgotten Prince

She walked like the corridor had been carved just for her—shoulders swaying to a rhythm the world had long forgotten, each step light enough to be mistaken for a dream. There was something surreal about her presence, like she belonged to another time, another realm, and had accidentally wandered into this one.

A loose sky-blue shirt fluttered around her like gossamer wings, layered over a soft cream top that whispered of serenity and forgotten Sundays. Wide-legged jeans skimmed the floor, their sway keeping time with her delicate movements. Chunky white sneakers squeaked now and then, punctuating the stillness with small bursts of joy. A soft beige hijab framed her face like sunlight through linen, cascading over her shoulder in waves as gentle as desert sand stirred by a tender breeze.

She was a quiet spectacle, a living melody that moved through the hallway like music made flesh.

“Mere khwabon mein jo aaye… aake mujhe ched jaaye…”

The song escaped her lips like a sigh—low, melodic, meant not for ears but for memory. Her fingers glided along the marble wall as though it held stories only she could read. She spun mid-step, eyes drifting shut, letting the music cradle her. It was a private performance with no audience. Just her and the silence—and the soft scent of chocolate.

She twirled again.

"Usse kho kabhi...samne to aaye"

Then—
WHAM!

Fate, with a flair for drama, answered her lyrics in the most literal way possible.

She slammed into someone. Hard. Solid. Unmoving.

The impact was undignified.

She let out a startled squeak as balance deserted her. Gravity laughed. She landed—squarely—on top of a complete stranger.

Hijab askew.

Chocolate smudged.

Her chain tangled somewhere between regret and mortification.

She blinked up, wide-eyed. So did he.

And for a moment, time lost its breath.

Then she grinned.

Not sheepishly. Not apologetically.

A full, dazzling grin that held the mischievous glint of someone who lived in musicals and collided with reality only on weekends. “Wow,” she breathed. “You showed up fast.”

Like he had been summoned by her song.

He did not share her amusement.

The man stared at her, jaw tightening, as though the universe had dared interrupt his schedule with a scene from a rom-com.

“Ma’am,” he said with visible restraint, “could you please get up?”

But she didn’t hear him.

Not entirely.

Her head tilted, as if trying to catch the last note of a melody no longer playing.

“Ma’am,” he repeated, voice sharp now. “Are you… mentally present?”

She blinked. “Huh? Oh! Yes! Yes, I’m so sorry, I—”

“It’s fine. It was my fault,” he muttered, clearly meaning the opposite. “But could you… get off? I’m in a hurry.”

She scrambled to comply—only to pause mid-motion. “Wait.”

He exhaled, already dreading the answer. “What now?”