Veins of Power, Threads of Fate

The morning sun filtered through the soft curtains of the modest cottage that Ekta now called home - far from the chaos of palaces, power, and pain.

Adrit's giggles filled the air, his chubby fingers tugging at the hem of Rohan's shirt as the man crouched beside him, building a makeshift fort out of cushions. Ekta stood at the kitchen counter, quietly observing the scene - a gentle smile ghosting her lips.

It was becoming their daily rhythm: Rohan arriving early with breakfast, playing with Adrit, fixing the leaky faucet Ekta refused to call a plumber for, and leaving only when Adrit had fallen asleep.

He never demanded anything in return. Not even answers.

But over time, Ekta had started offering pieces of herself - unspoken gestures, silent trust, and most recently, a rare invitation for evening chai on the porch swing.

"Rohan," she called softly, handing him a cup.

He turned and walked toward her, his eyes crinkling in that calm, reassuring way she had grown used to. "Thank you. He's getting stronger. Crawled straight into a pillow fortress today."

Ekta chuckled faintly, her voice still holding that weariness grief never quite lets go of. "He likes you. You've become his favorite person."

"I wouldn't dare compete with his mother," Rohan teased, sipping the hot tea.

Silence settled between them. Comfortable. Kind.

"You never ask me why I left Dev," she said after a moment, eyes fixed on the fading light.

"I don't have to," Rohan replied gently. "You don't owe me explanations. Only your truth - if you ever want to share it."

Ekta looked at him then, really looked - at the man who had stood by her when the world walked away. The man who loved her child like his own, without claiming space that wasn't his to take.

"Why haven't you moved on, Rohan?" she asked quietly.

He didn't look startled. Only sad. "Because you're still finding yourself, Ekta. I can't step into a space you haven't offered. I'm not here to fix you - just to stand beside you."

Her breath hitched.

That night, as she tucked Adrit into his cot and sat beside him humming a lullaby, Rohan lingered in the doorway, watching her. The warm glow of the bedside lamp bathed her in a soft light, making her look almost ethereal - fragile, yet unbreakable.

"Ekta," he said gently. "Can I take you and Adrit out tomorrow? Just to the lake. It's peaceful this time of year. You need air. You need smiles."

She paused, looking at her baby boy, then back at Rohan.

"Okay," she whispered.

The next afternoon, the three of them sat by the lake - Adrit bundled in Rohan's arms, a knitted cap slightly tilted over his tiny ears. Ekta watched as Rohan told him silly stories about ducks and frogs, his voice animated, his face lit up in joy.

Something warm stirred in her chest.

Not the desperate kind of love she once chased - but something steady, something safe.

Later, as they sat beneath a tree and Adrit napped between them, Rohan hesitantly reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a tiny, folded paper crane.

"I made this years ago," he said. "Back when I didn't know your story. I just... felt that someday, you'd need something gentle. Something small. So I kept it."

Ekta took the fragile piece in her fingers, eyes stinging. "It's beautiful."

"You're beautiful," he said softly, then corrected himself. "Not just outside. The way you mother him. The way you keep trying every day. It's... inspiring."

Tears welled in her eyes. She wasn't used to kindness without conditions.

"Rohan..." she whispered.

He shook his head. "You don't have to say anything. Not yet. I'll wait as long as it takes."

And that was the moment she realized: She didn't have to be alone anymore.

Rohan wasn't asking for her past. He was offering a future - not one she was ready to step into, but one she wasn't afraid to imagine anymore.

That night, as she lay in bed with Adrit curled up beside her, Ekta looked out the window at the stars.

For the first time in a long while, her heart didn't ache. It beat softly, steadily, like the flutter of something new.