The lines and marks on the map should have felt like progess—another step toward order, toward the legacy I was determined to leave behind.
But tonight, I couldn’t concentrate.
Dinner had been quieter than usual, a silence I couldn’t quite place. Roshni hadn’t spoken much, her words few and clipped, though not sharp enough to be confrontational. Still, something about her silence lingered with me.
I poured another glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light as I leaned back in the chair. She was an enigma, my wife—a woman I had married not for love but out of necessity. When we’d made our arrangement, I’d thought she would fade into the background of my life, a silent partner in this farce of a union.
But Roshni was anything but silent.
She moved through this house like she belonged to it, even when the glances from the servants spoke otherwise. She carried herself with a dignity that seemed unshakable, even in the face of a marriage neither of us had wanted. And though we rarely exchanged more than a few words at a time, I found myself watching her more than I cared to admit.
The candle on my desk flickered, and I glanced at the railway map again, tracing the routes with my finger. Progress. Order. Stability. These were the things that mattered, the things I could control.
Roshni was not one of those things.
I sighed, setting the glass down as I rubbed the bridge of my nose. My work demanded my focus, but tonight, my thoughts wandered back to her—her sharp eyes, the quiet defiance in her voice at dinner.
“Sometimes, what seems necessary is just a way to avoid facing the consequences.”
She had said it so calmly, so matter-of-factly, as if the statement wasn’t a direct challenge to the way I lived my life. And yet, I hadn’t felt anger. I’d felt... unsettled.
I shook my head, trying to dismiss the thought. Roshni had a way of speaking that made me think more than I wanted to, but that didn’t mean anything. She was my wife, yes, but we were hardly confidants. She didn’t understand my work, my responsibilities. How could she?
Still, her presence lingered like the scent of roses that drifted in from the garden.
Rising from the chair, I stepped to the window, looking out at the darkened grounds. The house was quiet, save for the distant creak of wooden beams settling in the cold. The faint glow of lanterns in the garden cast soft light on the roses she tended with such care.
I envied her simplicity, the way she seemed to find purpose in something as transient as flowers. My world was one of blueprints and reports, of meetings with men who measured progress in miles and dollars. Hers was one of roots and blossoms, of quiet persistence in the face of a world that often overlooked her entirely.
And yet, I found myself drawn to her in a way I hadn’t anticipated.
I poured myself another glass, the whiskey warming my chest as I tried to push her from my thoughts. She was my wife, yes, but our marriage was nothing more than an arrangement, a bridge between two worlds that were never meant to meet.
Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something about her I was missing.
Returning to the desk, I glanced at the railway plans one last time before folding them neatly and placing them in the drawer. The work could wait until morning. For now, I needed rest.
As I extinguished the lamp and made my way to the bedroom, I passed her door, pausing for a moment. The faint light of a candle flickered beneath the crack, and I wondered if she was still awake.
What kept her up at night? What thoughts lingered in her mind, just as she lingered in mine?
But the thought was fleeting. I turned away and continued down the hall, the sound of my boots soft against the wooden floor.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t my concern. Roshni was my wife, yes, but she was still a stranger in many ways. A beautiful, sharp-edged stranger I had yet to understand.
And perhaps it was better that way.
***
The morning sun filtered through the lace curtains, casting delicate patterns on the dining room floor. I walked in, my boots clicking softly against the polished tiles. Roshni was already seated at the far end of the table, her sari draped elegantly over her shoulder, a teacup cradled in her hands.
“Good morning,” I said, settling into my chair.
She glanced up briefly, her expression neutral. “Morning.”
I gestured to the servant to pour my tea, watching as the amber liquid filled the cup. “You’re up early.”
“So are you,” she replied, her tone polite but distant, as though matching the formality of my words.
“I suppose the day has its demands,” I said, adding a splash of milk to the tea. “What about you? What’s dragged you out of bed at this hour?”
Her gaze flicked to me briefly, then back to her tea. “The garden. The roses needed tending.”
I nodded, reaching for a slice of toast. “I noticed them yesterday. They’re thriving.”
“Plants thrive when you pay attention to them,” she said, her voice even. “Unlike most people.”
I paused mid-bite, raising an eyebrow. “And here I thought I was doing an adequate job as your attentive husband.”
Her lips twitched, almost forming a smile, but not quite. “Attention doesn’t always mean understanding, Edward. I’m sure even you know that.”
I leaned back in my chair, studying her as she picked at the fruit on her plate. “Are you implying I don’t understand you?”
Her eyes met mine then, dark and steady. “I’m implying you don’t try.”
The words hung between us, sharper than the morning’s chill. I considered her for a moment, weighing a response, but decided against matching her bluntness. Instead, I smirked, reaching for another slice of toast.
“Perhaps I’ll make an effort,” I said lightly.
She tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable. “It’s not effort that’s lacking, Edward. It’s intent.”
Before I could respond, she stood, her movements graceful but firm. “Enjoy your breakfast. I’ll be in the garden.”
I watched as she walked out, the faint swish of her sari fading as she disappeared down the corridor.
Left alone, I sipped my tea slowly, her words echoing in the quiet room. She always had a way of saying just enough to leave me curious but never enough to let me understand.
By the time I finished breakfast and stepped outside, the sun had climbed higher, warming the crisp air. I found her in the garden, crouched by the rose bushes, her fingers carefully inspecting a bloom.
“I don’t think you give me enough credit,” I said as I approached, my voice breaking the quiet.
She didn’t look up immediately, her attention fixed on the flower. “For what?”
“For trying,” I replied, standing a few feet away.
She straightened, turning to face me. “Trying is commendable, Edward. But results matter more.”
I crossed my arms, leaning slightly against the garden wall. “And what result would earn your approval?”
Her gaze was steady, unflinching. “Perhaps start with asking the right questions.”
I chuckled softly, shaking my head. “You’re a mystery, Roshni.”
“I’m a mirror,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You see what you choose to see.”
The conversation might have gone further, but a servant appeared, announcing that the carriage was ready. I nodded, turning back to Roshni.
“Enjoy your roses,” I said, my tone lighter now. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
She inclined her head, a faint smile ghosting her lips. “Have a good day, Edward.”
As I walked away, I couldn’t help but feel that every exchange with her was a game—a subtle dance of words and meanings, where neither of us was willing to lose. And for reasons I couldn’t quite place, I didn’t mind playing.
***
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