JAAN ( Darr 2 )

To see you just ...that

At first, it was just for the air, she told herself. The early evenings in Isendorf had a quietness she couldn't find anywhere else, a silence that didn't feel empty. The sky would start bleeding into dusk, lilac and grey and gold. The wild garden, still tangled and overgrown despite Rahul's efforts, softened under the fading light.

She had found a low-hanging tree branch near the edge of the garden. It wasn't too high, and she could climb up onto it without much trouble, especially with the gnarled roots beneath it acting like a step. It gave her a vantage point, a little perch under the whispering leaves. From there, she could watch him.

She never said anything.

Not a greeting. Not a word of suggestion. She just sat, legs loosely crossed, a notebook in her lap, pencil poised. Sometimes she sketched the trees, or the outline of the house. Not flowers or people, she was never that confident. but shapes and lines and corners of things. A rusted watering can. But more often than not, her pencil stopped and her eyes moved in time with him.

Rahul digging near the edge of the fence.

Rahul bending over a flowerbed, his back strong under the worn fabric of his shirt.

Rahul brushing the dirt off his palms, looking thoughtful, always careful.

She didn't need to tell him she was there. He noticed her. She knew he did.

Sometimes he'd glance up quickly, then look away, pretending to reach for something or wipe sweat from his brow. Other times he'd slow down, like he didn't want to disturb the quiet rhythm they had somehow built together.

There was a strange comfort in that silence.

She liked the way he didn't force conversation. That he didn't ask why she'd come out, or what she was drawing, or whether she wanted to help. He just let her be. And in return, she let him be too.

It was late in the day, the golden hour when the garden looked half-dream and half-memory, and Rahul was once again knee-deep in a patch of overgrown soil, muttering under his breath at a root that refused to come loose. Sweat clung to the back of his neck, and he didn't hear her approach—only felt it, a shift in the air like the hush before rain.

Then "thump"

He jerked upright, nearly losing his balance. Dirt flew from his hands as he spun around.

Kiran stood there, brushing leaves from her jeans, her long hair half-loose, a smudge of charcoal on one wrist. She didn't say anything at first, only gave him a look that was part amusement, part exasperation.

"You know," she said, voice light, "if you keep fighting that root like it insulted your ancestors, you're going to throw your back out by forty."

He blinked at her, then laughed despite himself, nervous and unsure, but warmed by her sudden presence on the ground instead of perched like some watchful, unreachable thing.

"I was winning," he defended.

"Barely," she countered, stepping closer and squatting down beside him. Her fingers brushed his, picking up the trowel he'd dropped. "This is "Artemisia vulgaris", mugwort. Persistent little thing. You're pulling it the wrong way."

He watched her hands more than he listened, and she knew it.

She glanced up, catching his eyes. "You do realize I worked in a botany research center, right?"

He nodded, still kneeling, unsure what to do with his hands now.

"So," she continued, brushing her hair behind her ear, "I've been watching your... "interpretive gardening technique" for a week. And I have thoughts."