Chapter 36 A Sons Shadow
Trust me-grief has a sense of timing, and it hates you.
- Vritant Vardhan
"Naraz ho?" Vritant asked while standing in front of his twin's picture. He let out a sarcastic chuckle.
(Are you angry with me?)
"Nahi honge, I'm sure. Papa bhi nahi hai aur teri bhabhi bhi nahi hai.
Kitna lucky hoon na main-Papa ko mujhse koi shikayat nahi, aur na Hrita ko.
Dono ne maaf kar diya, jaise maine kuch kiya hi nahi.
Main jaanta hoon, tum teeno ko mujhse bilkul umeed nahi hai.
Tum log mujhe itna bhi layak nahi samajhte ki mujhse naraz raho.
Kal Papa itna roye... sab bol diya, par ek baar bhi mujhe blame nahi kiya. Kal Papa ko maine tod diya, Echo. Papa ne teri pocket money bhi mujhe di hai, aur tere hisse ki chocolate bhi. Par tu kaha naraz hone wala-tune toh khud teri zindagi mujhe di hai.
Aur Adhri... woh toh mera ek hissa ban chuki hai.
Usko bhi tod diya maine. Aur usne phir se iss tute hue tere bhai ko gale laga diya.
Ek baar bhi nahi bola ki maine kyun apna dard uske upar rakha.
Par tu bata, Echo-agar main apna dard nahi batata, toh kya woh mere paas rehti?
Woh toh mujhe chhod ke chali jaati na? Jaise tu chala gaya... Mujhse dur.
Woh mujhe itna apna maan ne lagi hai ki mera dard sunte hi usne mujhe gale laga liya. Par usne ek baar bhi nahi puchha-kyun dard kiya? Aur uske dard ka kya? Kyun iss baar maine apna dard uske dard se upar rakha?
Papa ko gussa dilana zaroori tha na, Echo? Main toh unse maar khane ko bhi taiyar tha..."
(No, of course you're not. I'm sure of it.
Papa isn't either. And your bhabhi isn't, too.
How lucky am I-Papa has no complaints about me, and neither does Hrita.
Both of them have forgiven me, as if I never did anything at all.
I know... none of you have any expectations from me anymore.
You don't even think I'm worth being angry at.
Yesterday, Papa cried so much... he said everything, but not once did he blame me. Yesterday, Echo, I broke Papa. He even gave me your pocket money, and your share of the chocolate. But why would you be angry-you literally gave your life to me.
And Adhri... she's become a part of me now.
I broke her too. Yet she still embraced this shattered brother of yours.
Not once did she ask why I dumped my pain on her.
But tell me, Echo-if I hadn't shared my pain with her, would she have stayed with me?
She would've left me, right? Just like you left... went away from me.
She's begun to see me as so much her own that the moment she heard my pain, she held me close. Yet she never once asked-why did it hurt? And what about her pain? Why did I put mine above hers this time?
It was necessary to make Papa angry, wasn't it, Echo? I was even ready to be beaten by him...)
"Toh ab khaa le."
(Then take it now)
He froze at the sudden voice. Turning his head, he saw his father standing at the door of his private study. Shaurya Vardhan stepped inside, walked over, and stood beside him-his eyes fixed on Echo's picture.
"You intentionally made me angry, no?" Shaurya's voice was calm, but heavy. "You never took any important decision without informing me. And now suddenly... you didn't tell me about this?"
Vritant swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. "Papa... main-"
(Papa... I)
Shaurya didn't let him finish. His eyes were still locked on the photograph.
"You think I wouldn't notice?" His voice was low, almost too calm. "You've been waiting for me to break. Waiting for me to scream at you. Waiting for me to raise my hand on you, so you could feel punished and relieved at the same time."
Vritant's lips trembled. He lowered his gaze. "Shayad... Shayad main chahta hoon aap mujhe blame karein. Ek baar toh keh do, Papa... ki maine sab kharab kiya."
(Maybe... maybe I want you to blame me. Just once, Papa... say it-that I ruined everything.)
Shaurya clenched his jaw, his voice cracking for the first time.
"Beta... Tujhe blame karke mujhe kya milega? Ek aur bacha khone ka dard? Agar tujhe kuchh karna hi hai toh mere liye ek kaam kar."
(Son... what will I gain by blaming you? Another child's loss to grief? If you really want to do something for me, then do me one favor.)
"Kya papa aap batao main aapke liye jaan bhi..."
(What is it, Papa? Tell me-I'll even give my life for you...)
"Jaan nahi chahiye.. Tujhe waise bhi roz marte dekh raha hoon ek baar mere zinda bete ko zinda dekhna chahta hoon,"
(I don't want your life... I've already been watching you die a little every day. Just once... I want to see my living son alive.)
Vritant quickly hugged his father and Shaurya let out his emotions. Tears dropped from his eyes.
"Mere gussa hone ke baad tune sacchai batayi woh tu pehle bata sakta tha, mere liye itna kiya ek aur kaam kar de..."
(After my anger, you told me the truth. You could have told me earlier. You've done so much for me-do this one thing more...)
"I will try papa.. For you," Vritant spoke softly
"Nahi royega?" Shaurya asked and Vritant came out of hug and shook his head no.
(Won't you cry?)
"Cry... don't make yourself so sharp that your wife gets hurt. It's not her fault that she got married to you," Shaurya said
"I can't," he said. "And what exactly should I cry for?"
"I won't force you..." his father replied softly. "But did you make peace with your wife?"
"When does she ever get angry at me that I'd need to?" Vritant muttered.
Shaurya let out a laugh. "Right. And since you never dated anyone, you don't even have practice in winning a girl back."
Vritant chuckled too, shaking his head.
"Anyway," Shaurya smirked, "you still haven't thanked me."
"For what?" Vritant asked, puzzled.
"For forcing you to marry her," Shaurya said, amusement flickering in his eyes.
Vritant scoffed as he began walking toward the door. "You really think anyone can force me to do something I don't want?"
"You mean... you wanted to marry her?" Shaurya pressed.
Vritant only turned back, flashing a mocking, mischievous smile.
"You manipulative bastard," Shaurya muttered, grabbing a decorative showpiece from the table and hurling it at him.
Vritant dodged with a laugh and bolted out of the room.
??? V ? A ???
Vritant went to his room and found the bed empty. It was hardly 6:30 in the morning. He looked around, but she was nowhere. He checked the dressing room, then pushed open the washroom door-nothing.
He remembered how she had once asked if she could move to another room. His chest tightened as he hurried to the balcony, crossing over to the next room's balcony. He opened the door-empty again.
Frustrated, he returned and tapped Karma. The dog stirred, let out a soft bark, and blinked up at him. Taking the hint, Vritant stepped out of his room and scanned the hallway.
"Dadi... have you seen Adhrita?" he asked.
From the temple corner, Dadi turned and stared at him, almost surprised that he was asking. For a moment, she said nothing-just shook her head.
A twinge of panic shot through him. He pulled out his phone and checked her location. It still showed Vardhan Mansion. Relief flickered, but unease remained. He walked quickly toward the swimming pool-empty.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed movement inside the gym. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, he saw her.
Music blared inside-something Gujarati. Garba. She was dancing, her skirt swirling as she moved in circles.
He pushed the door open quietly and leaned against the wall, just watching. Her body spun with the rhythm, but her face... her closed eyes told another story. She wasn't enjoying it. She was lost somewhere else entirely.
Vritant studied her, his chest heavy. Then, almost without thinking, he stepped forward. She twirled again, circling in the garba rhythm, and as she spun past him, he caught her gently by the waist.
She stumbled into him, colliding hard against his chest. Her eyes flew open, startled, meeting his gaze. One hand clutched at his T-shirt, the other pressed against his chest as though holding on for balance-yet the tremor in her grip gave her away.
He didn't speak. He just held her steady, the music pounding around them, while her silence screamed louder than any words could.
"Your Navratri started already?" he teased softly.
She gave him a faint smile, then leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. Her eyes drifted shut, her breathing heavy, as if exhaustion clung to every breath.
He waited for her to speak, but she didn't. He knew-yesterday's wounds were still raw, still lingering in her silence.
Gently, he tightened his hold at her waist and lifted her a little. She let out a startled yelp, his name spilling from her lips. Slowly, he lowered her again-this time guiding her feet onto his own. One foot balanced over his, then the other, until she was standing on him entirely.
He began to move, slow deliberate steps, carrying her weight with his own. Her feet pressed against his, he swayed with her, as though teaching her a dance where she didn't need to move at all.
"Biwi banne ka bada shaukh hai toh itni jaldi maaf kar diya ?" he asked quietly.
(So eager to play the wife, huh? Forgave him that easily?)
"It's okay," she said softly. "I understand. You weren't really here... you were twelve years old and angry. Maybe all this time you've always been alone, so you just wanted to be alone. And no one likes it when somebody touches their deepest wounds."
"If you understand that it wasn't me but that twelve-year-old boy... and that I might have wanted to be alone, and wouldn't want anyone to touch my wounds..." he looked at her, voice low, "then why is there still hurt in your eyes?"
She shifted slightly, glancing away, avoiding his eyes as if afraid they might see too much.
"Look at me and say you've forgiven me," he whispered.
She lifted her eyes to his and murmured, "I've forgiven you."
He swayed with her a little more, his voice breaking into a half-smile. "You're still hurting. If you weren't, you'd be sitting in front of the mirror, putting on kohl before dancing... you wouldn't have needed to start the garba like this, escaping into another world without it."
"You always say you're afraid that your broken pieces might break me too," she whispered, holding him closer as he swayed a little faster with her. "I don't know if your brokenness will break me or not... but your fear of it surely will."
"Then why forgive me?" he asked quietly.
"Maybe because... if I had let go of your hand yesterday, maybe you would have slipped back into that darkness you're finally trying to leave.
Sometimes a person needs to be forgiven, not because they deserve it, but because at that moment, they're silently waiting for someone to just reach out and hold their hand.
Yesterday, I wasn't holding yours-I was holding that twelve-year-old boy's hand, asking him if he was okay. "
Her words silenced him. He stopped swaying altogether, just staring at her, his throat tight. Then slowly, he let her feet down onto the ground. Without a word, he clasped her hand and led her back to their room.
He made her sit at the vanity, then walked to the dressing room. Unlocking the wardrobe where he had carefully kept her dupattas and sarees, he pulled out a matching dupatta. When he returned, he found her untying her long hair.
He came forward and gently draped the dupatta over her head.
Then he stepped to the bedside, picked up the mangalsutra resting on the side table, and fastened it around her neck.
His hands didn't stop-he reached for the vermillion, pinched a bit between his thumb and finger, and filled her maang with quiet reverence.
Finally, he bent down, meeting her eyes at her level. His gaze didn't falter.
"Pyaar karne lagi ho mujse?" he asked softly.
(Have you started loving me?)
She blinked, a little taken aback. Then her lips curved into a smile, and she shook her head. "Nahi.. biwi banne ka shaukh chada hai," she teased.
(No... I've just caught the itch of wanting to be a wife)
They both laughed, the heaviness between them melting for a fleeting moment. She lifted the end of her dupatta, dabbed it against his forehead, and wiped the sweat away gently.
"Aaj itni meherbani kyun?" she asked, her tone light, but her eyes searching him deeply. She wasn't asking about the rituals-she was asking about him.
(Why so much kindness today?)
And he knew it.
"So I don't have to give you the pocket money Papa gave me for you," he smirked, eyes glinting with mischief.
Her mouth fell open. "Chor! Give me my money!"
(Thief)
He stood up at once, feigning innocence, then let out a sarcastic chuckle."What thief? Wives are supposed to take money from their husbands, aren't they? So take it when you need it."
Before she could argue, he darted away. "Vritant!" she yelled, half laughing, half fuming, as he bolted toward the door like a teenager who'd just stolen candy.
Her dupatta slipped from her head as she got up and chased after him, her anklets chiming against the marble floor. He looked back, grinning wickedly at her expression, and picked up his pace.
He sprinted down the stairs, Adhrita right behind him, breathless and determined. The commotion drew everyone's attention.
"What happened, beta?" Shaurya asked as she skidded to a halt, panting.
"Papa-he took away my pocket money!" she accused, glaring at Vritant.
Shaurya's lips twitched. Without missing a beat, he picked up the heavy iron lamp from the corner and handed it to her.
"Here, take this."
Adhrita grabbed it instantly, her chest still heaving. Vritant's eyes widened in disbelief.
"Papa!" he barked, scandalized. "Behti Ganga mein haath dho rahe ho?" He grabbed a pillow from the sofa and hurled it at Adhrita before she could charge. She dodged, stumbling back-only to freeze when she noticed Vedashree standing at the top of the stairs.
Vritant groaned. "Oh, great."
Shaurya crossed his arms, a sly smile tugging at his lips. "What are you waiting for, Adhrita? Go and hit that manipulator."
Before he could argue, Adhrita took off again.
He bolted, running through the hallway and straight into the gym. He pressed himself against the wall by the door, waiting. The moment she stepped inside, he grabbed her wrist, spun her, and pinned her to the wall.
"Vritant!" she gasped, breathless from the chase. "Give me my money."
He leaned in, his smirk dripping with arrogance. Slowly, he released her waist with one hand, reached for her dupatta, and tugged it free. Draping it casually around his neck, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the loose end.
Then, he dabbed the dupatta across her forehead, then let it trail down slowly to her neck. She closed her eyes, her breath catching as his lingered against her face. Her teeth caught her lower lip.
He leaned in closer, his nose brushing her temple, deliberate, unhurried. His voice was a whisper, hot against her skin.
"I won't... not until I take care of your hurt."
And then-just as suddenly-he pulled back.
Her eyes flew open, finding his. A beat of silence passed, heavy between them. Then, with quiet defiance, she swept her hair over one shoulder, baring the curve of her neck.
His gaze fell to the scattered constellation of moles there, and his expression hardened, stern, almost warning.
"Sure," she murmured, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. "Don't."
She held her breath, her teasing smile faltering as he leaned in just a fraction closer, eyes locked on hers. The heat between them was electric, but he moved deliberately, letting every second stretch.
Slowly, he traced the line of her jaw with the back of his fingers, lingering at her neck, his thumb brushing over her pulse. She shivered, biting her lip again, and he caught the movement with a small, almost imperceptible smirk.
He leaned down further, his breath ghosting over her cheek, and pressed his lips lightly against her temple-not a kiss, not yet-but enough to make her pulse leap. She closed her eyes, leaning into him, letting herself feel safe in the closeness.
He leaned closer, lips grazing the sensitive curve of her neck. Slowly, deliberately, he left a dark, heated mark that made her shiver violently. She bit her lip hard, sharp enough that a bead of blood welled up, and he caught sight of it, eyes darkening with a raw, hungry gleam.
Without a word, he lowered his mouth to hers, pressing his lips against hers in a slow, deliberate kiss, tasting the tiny bead of blood, letting it mingle with hers. His tongue traced hers gently at first, then with more urgency, exploring, claiming.
Her hands tangled in his hair as she responded, biting, pulling, arching against him. His hands moved over her back, squeezing, holding her impossibly close, skin pressing against skin, every motion dripping with heat and need.
The world outside the gym-the noise, the music, the family-disappeared completely.
There was only the two of them, lips and tongues, breaths mingling, hearts hammering in sync.
His hands roamed lower, gripping her waist, tilting her closer, while she pressed herself against him, lost in the sensation, every nerve alight.
He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down her jaw, over her collarbone, and back to her neck, leaving bruising marks as he went. She moaned, tilting her head, offering herself to him, burning with desire.
Slowly, she needed air and broke the kiss, gasping softly. His gaze stayed locked on her, intense, almost consuming.
"Lahu muh lagg gaya," he whispered, dark and low.
(The taste of blood has touched your mouth)
She laughed, a breathless, teasing sound.
"Adhrita ka pati did say... 'I won't until I take care of your hurt,'" she murmured, pointing at the mark on her neck. "But I think you just hurt me more," she added, mockingly, tilting her head as if daring him to argue.
(Adhrita's husband)
"I need to meet Sasurji very soon," he said, his voice calm but carrying that sharp edge that always made her sit up straight.
Adhrita blinked, confused.
"And... also, I need to fire my detective?" He gave her a small, knowing smirk.
"What? Why?" she asked, frowning, trying to piece together his sudden seriousness.
"Come. I'll show you," he said, reaching for the dupatta still around his neck. With a swift motion, he pulled it off and draped it over her, covering her neck as he did before-intimate, protective, and teasing all at once.
He led her to their room and opened his wardrobe with a precise flick of his wrist. From the back, he pulled out a thick file. He held it in front of her, and her confusion deepened as she recognized the cover: it was her file.
He opened it slowly, revealing page after page of detailed notes-everything the detective had gathered. And right at the top, her description:
Personality Traits:
Timid and reserved; avoids confrontation whenever possible.
Polite, courteous, and considerate, often putting others' needs ahead of her own.
Highly observant, quietly taking in her surroundings without drawing attention.
Subtle warmth in demeanor; innocent charm that engenders trust.
Prefers solitude or small, familiar groups; uncomfortable in large social settings.
Maintains a composed exterior, but reacts emotionally in private.
"You meant to say it's not true?" she asked, her voice cautious.
"Nope," he said, smirking. "He forgot to add a few things."
"A few things like..." she prompted, curiosity piqued.
He leaned closer, his voice dropping, intimate and deliberate. "Like... bold enough to stand in front of me, offer me your neck, and smile as if you weren't trembling inside."
"I was not," she whispered.
Vritant extended his hand, slid it behind her back, and with a swift tug, snapped the long thread of her blouse that held it together. She gasped, clutching the loose fabric against her chest.
"You knew my weakness. I knew yours," he murmured, his voice a low hum near her ear.
Her lips curved in a sly smile. "Then why did you reveal it to me?" she asked, fumbling to tie the dori with her hands awkwardly reaching behind.
He caught her wrist, plucked the string from her fingers, and tied it himself, slow and deliberate, while still caging her against the wall. His breath brushed her shoulder.
"I didn't reveal it to you," he said flatly.
"Oh yes," she teased, tilting her head toward him, "family always knows your weaknesses. And that's why they press it-when they want something in their favour."
He stilled. Her words slipped between his armor, hitting a place she hadn't meant to reach. Family. Weakness. His jaw clenched, his eyes going still and faraway.
"Vritant..." she called softly, sensing the change.
He blinked, pulled himself back, and curved his mouth into a practiced smile.
"Yeah... I remember I'm getting late for the office."
Adhrita glanced at the clock and her eyes widened. "It's so late!" She darted toward the washroom, her anklets chiming, her dupatta trailing after her.
Vritant followed silently, his steps careful, his presence just behind her. When she turned back, she found him leaning casually on the washroom doorframe, watching her with that unreadable calm.
"I forgot to say..." he began, stepping inside.
Her brows arched. "To say?"
He came close-so close she felt the heat of him before his lips brushed her ear.
"Wear my favorite color," he whispered, biting her earlobe with a sudden playful nip before pulling away.
Adhrita gasped, swatting at him, but he was already gone, his laughter bouncing off the cold tiles of the washroom. It lingered in the space even after he had slipped out, sharp and carefree on the surface, but carrying a weight she couldn't quite name.
??? V ? A ???
He went to his father's room and found Shaurya adjusting his cufflinks. Without a word, Vritant picked up the coat from the chair and slipped it onto him.
"I sent you the details," he said evenly.
Shaurya studied him in the mirror. "Are you sure you want to do this?"
Before Vritant could answer, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen-CM Abhijeet Bapat. Shaurya leaned over, noticing the name flash, and arched a brow, gesturing for his son to answer.
Vritant picked it up, pressed speaker. "Kahiye, CM saab, aap humari aur kya seva kar sakte hai?" His tone was cutting, mocking.
(Well, Chief Minister, what more can you do in my service?)
"Vritant," Bapat's voice came through, strained but careful. "Are you stepping into politics? Word is, you could be the next CM of Maharashtra."
"Or Gujarat?" Vritant drawled lazily. "You're forgetting-I am the only son-in-law of my sasurji. But if we're chasing rumors, then why not? I'd prefer the bigger chair. President of the country sounds better, don't you think?"
(Father-in-law)
"You didn't tell me about this," the CM accused.
"So what, CM saab?" Vritant's smirk sharpened. "Maine bhi aapke wholesale pyaar ke business ke baare mein kisi ko nahi bataya."
(I haven't told anyone about your little wholesale love business either.)
There was silence on the line.
"First rule of politics, isn't it? Keep your secrets close. You never know when they'll come handy." His sarcasm cracked into a laugh as he cut the call.
Shaurya shook his head, lips twitching. "Wholesale pyaar ka business? Really? No doubt you're my son." He patted his shoulder with half a smile.
(Business of wholesale love?)
They both broke into laughter, the tension easing for a fleeting moment.
"President of the country, really?" Shaurya asked, still chuckling.
"Yes," Vritant replied, deadpan for a beat before his mouth curved into a grin. "For once, I want to command Vedashree Vardhan-'Come to my office. NOW.'" He threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing in the room.
Shaurya shook his head in disbelief, but amusement lingered in his eyes.
Vritant chuckled, already turning to leave, but then he paused. His gaze lingered on his father's reflection in the mirror. "Papa," he said quietly, "aap haaroge nahi."
(You will not be defeated)
Shaurya's smile vanished. He turned, face hardening. "Sorry, beta. After knowing everything, I-"
"Shaurya Vardhan looked so terrible while crying," Vritant cut in, a wicked grin tugging at his lips.
His father narrowed his eyes. "Well, I'll see how you look when you cry, you manipulator."
"Keep dreaming," Vritant shot back. "And remember who created this manipulator."
Shaurya snorted. "Mera baap banne ki koshish kar raha hai? Lagta hai bahu rani ne dhang se pita nahi tujhe. Waise, kaisi hai woh?"
(So now you're trying to play father? Seems your queen didn't school you well enough. Tell me, how is she?)
The smirk on Vritant's face faltered. "She's hurt. First I opened this Pandora's box, then lost my temper at her... and then her patient died."
Shaurya frowned. "She's blaming herself?"
Vritant nodded once, silent.
"This is absurd," Shaurya said firmly. "She shouldn't blame herself. A few things are not in our control."
Vritant's expression flickered. He snatched his father's phone, pointed the camera at him. "Wait. Repeat that divine knowledge."
Shaurya, confused, repeated himself: "A few things are not in our control."
"Good. Now listen to this five times a day." Vritant mocked, pressing play as if saving a devotional chant. He laughed, slipping the phone back onto the table, and darted for the door before his father could swat him.
When he came into the room, she was already by the door, her bag slung over her shoulder. Before he could speak, Adhrita plucked his wallet from the table, sliding it into her bag with deliberate calm.
"Wives are supposed to take money from their husbands, aren't they?" she teased, eyes dancing before she swept out of the room, leaving no space for his reply.
Vritant exhaled slowly, a trace of disbelief curving at his mouth. He headed toward the washroom, and as the light flickered on, his gaze caught the mirror.
Her handwriting streaked across the glass-playful, taunting, and entirely her.
He leaned closer to the mirror, eyes narrowing at the word scrawled in her handwriting: "Almost."
A slow smirk curved his lips. Almost, she said. Not yes. Not no. Just enough to stir him, enough to make him want to chase the rest.
He pressed a finger against the glass, tracing the word, imagining the teasing smile behind it.
Vritant's lips curved into that infuriating smirk. Leaning closer, he traced his reply with a finger in the steam, his style unmistakable:
"VV's."
Short, possessive, teasing-his signature on her word, claiming her in the smallest, most dangerous way.
He thought, How could I be cruel to her? No amount of trauma gives me the right to be cruel to her.
After taking a quick shower, he went to the dressing room and unlocked the wardrobe where her dupattas and sarees were kept. Carefully, he shifted them back into her section-everything in place, except the one she had lost in the riots.
As he arranged the pile neatly, his eyes caught something tucked deep inside: their wedding picture, small and slightly faded, resting quietly among the fabric.
A faint smile curved his lips as he stared at it for a long moment, chest tightening with a mix of longing and quiet affection.
He closed the wardrobe with deliberate care, carrying the warmth of that small memory with him.
He quickly changed into formal attire, each movement precise, controlled, carrying the weight of unspoken emotions even as he readied himself to face the day.
He opened his drawer and took out the pocket money his father had given for her, then returned it carefully to her wardrobe drawer.
His eyes wandered to a black T-shirt tucked in the corner of the pile.
He picked it up, and a smirk tugged at his lips-it was his.
Holding it for a moment, he grinned at himself.
Quickly, he changed into blue denim jeans and the black T-shirt. Gathering his essentials, he checked for his wallet-and froze for a beat before shaking his head. She had taken it with her.
He drove to the hospital, entering her cabin to find her sitting in the corner on the sofa, engrossed in a file. She looked up in surprise as he entered, then closed the file carefully.
She put it down and stood.
"My wallet?" he asked.
"My pocket money," she countered, her tone teasing.
He grinned, scratching his neck deliberately. Her eyes widened as realization dawned-finally, she noticed what he was wearing. He gave her a mocking smile and spotted his wallet on the table. He grabbed it, waved at her, and turned to leave before she could say anything.
Laughing quietly, he opened the wallet and checked its contents. Everything was there. His fingers lingered on the small picture of him and his twin, and his smile faltered.
Silver Coin, he whispered to himself.
He rifled through the wallet again. The coin was missing. His smile vanished, replaced by a frown. Frustration tightened his jaw as he strode back into her cabin. She was now sitting on his chair, calm as ever.
"Yes?" she asked, leaning back, eyes sharp.
"Did you take anything from the wallet?" he asked, voice low but steady.
"No. Why? Is something missing?" she replied, serious, meeting his gaze.
He shook his head, unable to keep the frustration out of his movements, and left the cabin.
"I lost it," he muttered under his breath, tension heavy in his voice as he walked away.
Just then, a wave of dizziness swept over him. He blinked rapidly, trying to steady himself, but the world spun violently. His hands clenched the edge of the table, knuckles whitening, yet nothing anchored him-everything tilted and swayed.
Darkness crept in at the corners of his vision, devouring light, devouring him. His knees buckled before he could react, and he crumpled to the floor.
The last thing he felt was the thundering of his own heartbeat in his ears, a muffled, relentless drum... and then, nothing.
Lovely. Just me, gravity, and my life deciding to collapse-again.
────────── ?? ? ?? ──────────