Dehradun, Morning

The morning in Dehradun felt like a sigh suspended in the air-an unspoken breath that neither rose nor fell, simply lingered. Mist draped itself like a shawl over the hills, curling around treetops and gliding down onto rooftops as though reluctant to let the night go. In the quiet house nestled at the edge of the town, time moved unhurriedly, as if respecting the heaviness inside.

Inside the old wooden house, where memories hung like picture frames, Eraya sat curled up on the aging beige sofa. A charcoal wool shawl hugged her shoulders, her fingers unconsciously twisting a loose thread. A book lay open on her lap, its pages as untouched as the tea cooling on the table beside her. The chapter she had been reading-some philosophical musing on finding clarity in chaos-had eluded her for the last thirty minutes. Her eyes had drifted over the same paragraph again and again, but the words had long blurred into meaningless ink.

Because her thoughts weren't here. They were with him.

Vidhart Singh Ranawat.

She whispered his name in her mind like it was a riddle she hadn't yet solved. Royalty. Respected. Reserved. He wasn't just someone from another world-he was another world. Jaipur's Ranawat Haveli was a distant echo to her Dehradun NGO. Their lives didn't just differ in class or culture; they were stitched from entirely different fabrics.

And yet, here she was-holding his name like a pebble in her palm, turning it over, feeling the weight of it settle.

Why her?

She wasn't used to attention. Certainly not this kind. She had spent most of her adult life building something quiet and purposeful-working with children, planning rural health drives, fighting for clean water in villages where no one else bothered to look. She had kept her world small on purpose, manageable, safe. And now this man, with his legacy and titles, had walked into her life like a gust of wind blowing open a window she hadn't even realized she'd closed.

Marriage.

The word alone made her pulse skip. Not because she was against it-but because she had never pictured herself entering it like this. With a stranger who saw her in passing, who now wanted to bind their fates together with ancestral expectations and societal spectacle.

And yet, his proposal didn't feel like a demand.

It felt... strange. Unpredictable. Unsettling. But not unkind.

Her father's voice from the night before echoed through her thoughts like a bell through fog. Calm, steady, layered with meaning.

"If you believe he truly sees you-not just your face framed in a palace portrait-then I will trust you to choose."

It wasn't permission. But it wasn't refusal either. It was something more difficult: trust. The kind that both anchors and burdens.

She rose slowly from the sofa, the shawl falling off her shoulders as she walked toward her room. Her footsteps barely made a sound on the floorboards, as if the house itself respected the weight of her decision. There, resting carelessly over the back of a wooden chair, lay her mother's old teal dupatta. Its threads were slightly frayed, the corners softened by years, but it still held the warmth of memories.

She picked it up gently and draped it over her shoulders.

Standing before the mirror, she looked at her reflection-really looked. She didn't see the girl who had built a life out of passion projects and scraped funds. Nor the daughter who always tried to be enough. Nor the bride-to-be she was being asked to become.

She saw a woman.

A woman on the precipice of a possibility she didn't ask for but now couldn't ignore.

Her fingers clutched the edge of the mirror frame as she whispered,

"I'll meet him."

And the weight of the words settled somewhere between her ribs.

Just once.

Later, when she repeated those words to her father, he said nothing at first. Then he reached out, gently placing a hand on her shoulder.

"That's all I ask."

But she saw it-the flicker in his eyes, the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

Relief.

And something else-hope, perhaps. That maybe his daughter was about to walk into a story that didn't have to be ordinary.

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Jaipur, The Same Day

Evening draped itself over the Ranawat haveli like a silk sari-soft, flowing, yet rich with gravity. The golden light filtering through the latticed windows turned the marble floors to honey, casting long shadows on the intricately carved columns that lined the hallway. Somewhere in the haveli, distant music played-an old classical tune that meandered like memory itself.

But Vidhart wasn't listening.

He stood in the quiet of his study, spine straight, hands clasped behind his back, facing the window. The antique grandfather clock behind him ticked steadily, counting seconds he could no longer control.

She had said yes.

Not to marriage.

But to meeting him.

A simple, fragile step-and yet, to him, it was monumental.

His eyes remained closed as he breathed out slowly, as though exhaling four years of restrained hope.

This wasn't victory. It wasn't about conquest or tradition.

It was grace. And the beginnings of something fragile and sacred.

He didn't want chandeliers. No regal procession. No whispered instructions on how to behave.

He requested the meeting be arranged in a modest café in Dehradun. A place where chandeliers did not hang, where lineage didn't walk in before he did, where he could be just a man meeting a woman-not a prince seeking a bride.

He sat down that evening at his desk, his fingers gently tracing the wood's worn patterns. And he thought about Dehradun. About the rain. About the girl who had once stepped out to help a child with nothing but her scarf and a heart full of kindness.

She doesn't remember.

But he did.

Every detail.

And now, fate was folding its pages again. Giving him a second chance at the first glance.

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The Meeting



The café smelled of fresh cardamom and ground coffee-a blend that felt both nostalgic and grounding. Books lined the walls in quiet rebellion against modern décor, their spines worn and proud. Conversations murmured around her like river water over stones. There was something sacred in the simplicity of it.

Eraya stood just inside the doorway, her breath shallow, her fingers clenched tightly around the strap of her leather bag. The teal dupatta clung lightly to her shoulders, as if trying to offer strength.

And then she saw him.

Vidhart Singh Ranawat. Seated by the window. A white shirt with rolled sleeves. No guards. No dramatics. Just a man sitting quietly, his gaze scanning the entrance-until it landed on her.

He stood, not with the arrogance of a prince, but with the composure of a man who knew the value of moments.

"Thank you for coming," he said, his voice low and even.

"I wasn't sure I would," she confessed, as she slid into the chair opposite him.

"I wasn't sure you would either," he replied with a small, knowing smile that didn't try to charm but still disarmed her.

There was silence-but it wasn't awkward. It was... considerate.

Then, slowly, they began talking. Chai was ordered. Stories began to unfurl. He asked about her NGO-not with the polite interest of someone fulfilling an obligation, but with real attentiveness.

When she spoke about the health camp and the little girl with the broken arm who drew sunflowers on her cast, his eyes didn't soften-they steadied.

"You care deeply," he said gently.

She paused.

"Does that surprise you?"

He shook his head.

"No. It confirms what I sensed."

Her chest tightened.

"What did you sense?"

His answer wasn't direct. Instead, he glanced down at the steam curling up from his cup.

"That you live your truth. That's rare."

She didn't respond. But something shifted within her. Being seen-not for beauty or for potential, but for substance-was unfamiliar. And unnervingly comforting.

.

Vidhart

He had rehearsed so many things in his mind-what he would say, how he would reveal the thread that bound them before she even knew it existed.

But he said none of it.

Because this wasn't about his memory. This was about her choice.

When she walked in-nervous, beautiful, grounded in her own grace-he felt like the moment breathed for him.

She didn't need to wear royalty to command presence. She was presence. Unassuming, but magnetic. And when her dupatta caught the light as she moved, for a second he was transported back-to rain-slick streets, a moment he hadn't known would change him forever.

But he didn't say it. Not yet.

This had to be her story too.
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Departure

An hour passed like a dream pretending to be reality. When she rose to leave, he stood too.

"I'm not saying yes," she said softly, her voice dipped in honesty. "But I'll meet you again."

It was more than he had dared hope.

"Whenever you're ready, whenever you want Dehradun or jaipur, I would like if you come to jaipur" he said.

She nodded.

She turned, but not before her fingers brushed the table, an absent-minded gesture that somehow felt like a promise.

"You're not like I expected," she murmured.

"Neither are you," he replied, voice laced with something that felt almost like reverence.

And then she walked away.

No commitment.

No clarity.

But in the soft echo of her steps and the faint scent of cardamom she left behind, something sacred bloomed.

Not certainty.

But a beginning.

And sometimes, that was everything.

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