Chapter 10 INK AND IVORY
ADITYA
Morning at Ink & Ivory Press always carries a particular kind of quiet.
Not the sleepy quiet of an empty place, but the focused quiet of people who work with words for a living.
Pages turning somewhere in the editorial room.
The faint tapping of keyboards behind glass partitions.
A printer humming occasionally like it’s clearing its throat before releasing another stack of manuscripts.
I push open the glass door of my office and set my bag on the chair beside the desk.
The room smells faintly of paper and coffee.
It’s a scent I’ve always liked.
My office sits at the end of the hallway overlooking the main floor of the publishing house. Through the glass wall I can see the long worktable where the editorial team usually gathers, manuscripts spread in uneven piles like quiet little battles waiting to be fought.
For a moment I just stand there.
Watching. Listening.
This place has always felt like the only corner of the world that made sense to me. Books stacked against the walls. Proof pages clipped to boards. Editors arguing passionately about punctuation like it might change the fate of civilization which to be honest it might.
Most people would probably find this atmosphere boring.
I’ve always found it peaceful.
I shrug off my jacket and hang it on the back of the chair before sitting down at my desk. A stack of manuscripts is already waiting there—three novels, two nonfiction submissions, and a report from the design team about upcoming covers.
Work.
Actual work.
I open the first file and start reading.
Or at least I try to.
Because the moment my eyes reach the third paragraph of the manuscript, my brain decides it would rather replay a completely different scene.
Flour on the kitchen counter.
Divya glaring at me with her arms crossed.
'You provoked me.'
I blink and look back down at the page.
Focus.
I try again.
Two paragraphs later I’m remembering the exact moment she threw flour at me. The memory makes something warm curl inside my chest.
I lean back slightly in the chair and rub my hand across my mouth.
This is… new.
For most of my adult life work has been easy to focus on. Books have always been the one thing capable of holding my attention for hours. But today my mind keeps drifting. Back to the house. Back to the small kitchen. Back to the way Divya laughed when the cake actually turned out edible.
I shake my head lightly and reach for my coffee mug.
It’s empty.
Of course.
I stand and step out of my office toward the small pantry area down the hallway. The office is more alive now. People are moving around, exchanging notes about upcoming releases and marketing deadlines.
Someone waves at me as I pass.
I nod back.
While the coffee machine slowly fills my mug, I hear footsteps approaching behind me.
“Good morning, Aditya.”
I turn slightly.
It’s Ketki Sharma, our senior editor.
She has worked here longer than anyone else in the building. My mother hired her years ago, and she stayed even when my father stopped paying much attention to the publishing house.
Ketki is in her early fifties now, sharp-eyed and impossibly perceptive.
The kind of woman who can read both manuscripts and people with uncomfortable accuracy.
“Good morning,” I reply.
She studies my face for a moment while stirring sugar into her coffee.
Then one eyebrow lifts. “You look unusually cheerful today.”
I pause mid-sip.
“Do I?”
“Yes,” she says calmly.
“You’ve been smiling at your laptop for the last ten minutes.”
I frown slightly. “I was not smiling at my laptop.”
“You absolutely were.” She leans lightly against the counter, watching me with mild curiosity.
“Usually when you read a manuscript you look like you’re solving a philosophical crisis.”
I can’t help the small laugh that escapes me. “Maybe today I’m feeling optimistic.”
Meera tilts her head slightly. “That’s suspicious.”
“Is optimism suspicious now?”
“It is when it appears suddenly.” She studies me a moment longer.
Then something in her expression softens.
“Well,” she says quietly, “whatever the reason is… it suits you.”
I look down at my coffee mug for a second.
The warmth from it spreads slowly through my hands.
“I am happy,” I admit after a moment.
The words come out simpler than I expect.
Ketki smiles faintly. “I’m glad.”
She doesn’t ask anything else. That’s one of the things I respect most about her. She never pushes past the point where curiosity becomes intrusion.
We walk back toward the editorial room together.
On the way she hands me a manuscript folder.
“Debut author,” she explains. “The writing is rough but there’s something interesting in the voice.”
I open the folder as we walk.
“Let’s schedule a meeting with the author next week,” I say after skimming the first page.
Ketki nods approvingly. “That’s exactly what I suggested.” We step into the conference room where the design team is waiting with mock-ups for the next book cover.
For the next hour I’m fully immersed in work. Discussions about typography. Paper quality. Marketing strategy. Release timelines.
It’s familiar territory. Comfortable territory. But somewhere between reviewing the cover art and finalizing a print schedule, my thoughts drift again.
Divya leaning against the kitchen counter this morning. Neel inspecting the cake like a serious food critic.
I glance down at my wrist. The faint scent of the attar she applied yesterday still lingers there. Something warm spreads quietly through my chest again.
For years my life has followed a simple rhythm.
Work.
Home.
Work again.
Books filling the spaces in between.
But now—now there is laughter in the kitchen. Flour fights. A small boy declaring important missions. And a woman whose smile has somehow become the first thing I think about when the day begins.
Across the table Ketki notices the small smile that slips onto my face again.
She doesn’t say anything this time. She just watches for a moment. Then returns to the manuscript in front of her.
And for the first time in a long while—work doesn’t feel like the only place where my life exists.