JAAN ( Darr 2 )

They settled into their new life in Isendorf with surprising ease. Days flowed seamlessly into one another, each one a quiet rhythm of work and home, things were peaceful, almost routine.

Kiran had taken up a job as an editor at the local newspaper, her days spent poring over stories from the community, editing articles, and occasionally attending local events. She found it fulfilling, though sometimes a bit monotonous.

 Rahul, on the other hand, worked as an archivist at the town's library, a job that suited his love for history and quiet spaces. His days were spent cataloging old records, managing rare collections, and organizing the town's literary archives.

Every morning, they left together, walking down the gravel path to the bus stop, side by side. There was a comfort in their quiet rituals, in the way he always matched his pace to hers, in the way their shoulders brushed just slightly, sometimes on purpose, sometimes not.

 The cold air bit gently at their faces, and the sky over Isendorf was often soft with mist. They talked about small things about a woman at the bakery who always forgot his name, about an article Kiran was editing that was far too long and far too earnest. 

They joked, smiled, sometimes walked in silence. But there was still something missing. Some invincible line neither of them dared to cross. It hung between them like breath in the cold visible, undeniable, and always dissolving before it could be touched.

By late afternoon, Kiran was still at the newspaper office, sorting through columns, tightening sentences, laughing now and then with the small team she'd grown fond of.

 Rahul, however, often finished earlier. His hours at the library were gentle, measured. He liked it there, the scent of old paper, the quiet, the structure. But it was the thought of returning to the cottage that tugged at him most. Not because he needed rest. But because that was where she would return to.

He'd light the fire in the hearth, not just for the warmth, but for the glow it cast on the old walls. He'd put the kettle on, steep her tea just the way she liked it. loose leaves, not too strong. He'd lay out two mugs on the table. Her favorite blanket would be folded on the couch. He did it without thinking now. It was habit. It was hope. A quiet offering he never voiced.

When Kiran returned in the evenings, the warmth hit her first. Then the smell of tea. Then the silence. Rahul was always outside by then, somewhere in the garden, barely visible beyond the window, sleeves rolled up, dirt on his hands.

She knew why he did it.

Maybe he genuinely liked gardening. Maybe he found something healing in it. But she knew him too well to believe it was only that. It was his way of giving her space. Of not crowding her. Of stepping back without ever leaving.

But after everything they had been through, everything they had run from and everything they had found in this place Kiran found herself not quite liking that space anymore.

Not in the same way she once had.

It wasn't suffocating, not like before. It was emptier now. Quiet in a way that made her aware of her own heartbeat. She'd sit on the edge of the couch with the tea he'd left for her, still warm. She'd glance toward the window and see his figure moving among the trees. And she'd wonder what he was thinking. Whether he knew how much she noticed.

Whether he still thought she needed space or if he was just too afraid to ask if she didn't.

Because truthfully, she didn't know anymore.

She just knew she missed something she'd never quite had. And she was starting to feel ready to reach for it. Almost. Not yet. But soon.

So she started going out into the garden.