Chapter Eight
Dahlia
Despite being physically and emotionally drained, I can’t sleep.
Every creak of the plane, every rustle of movement in the cabin yanks me back to full alertness, as if the adrenaline hasn’t left my system.
The caffeine from the two lattes I definitely shouldn’t have sucked down churns with the stress still coursing through my body, leaving me hollow and shaky.
I push my food around on the tray but can’t force anything down even with the upgraded first-class fare.
I flip through books on my phone, but the words blur together.
Even an audiobook can’t hold my attention—every shift of fabric, every muted cough, every click of a seatbelt latch pulls me back to full alertness.
The miles stretch behind me, but the tension thrumming through my body like a live wire refuses to fade. I can’t shake the feeling that I haven’t seen the last of Ben. I know him too well. He won’t let this go.
I stare blankly out the plane’s window, my mind sifting backward through the years.
Trying to pinpoint the moment I stopped being his partner and became something else.
Something smaller, as if I were nothing more than a disposable commodity.
A paper napkin, used, crumbled, and carelessly tossed aside.
Had he ever really loved me? Or had I only ever been useful? Just another pawn to move in whatever game he is playing at.
I curse myself for being so naive, so damn trusting. Just handing over everything, never questioning if he deserved it. But in my defense, I was in love. He was my whole universe. Everything I did—every sacrifice, every compromise—had been for Ben.
Now, out from under his thumb, the truth sharpens into focus.
The changes over the years had been so subtle, so insidious, that I hadn’t even noticed.
Like the proverbial frog in boiling water, I never realized I was being conditioned—slowly, deliberately—until I was drowning in his version of who I should be.
Shoving myself into a mold that just didn’t quite fit, no matter how uncomfortable it was.
Never again.
Not only had I put Ben’s needs above mine, but I had put his wants above my needs. That is not love. That is not a partnership. And now, the end result is staring me in the face—I’m alone. Truly, utterly alone.
No one is coming to take care of me. There is no white knight.
And that’s okay. It’s time I take care of myself. It’s time I put my own wants and needs first. Hell, if I take half as good care of myself as I did of him I’ll be in great shape. And what better way to start than by chasing down the future I almost let slip away?
By the time I step off the second plane, retrieve my luggage, and meet the jeep I hired during my layover, a quiet confidence settles over me.
I’m back. This time, on my own terms. No research agenda for the department, no timelines for a dissertation.
I have one goal and one goal only. Secure the plant and extract the cure so I can survive.
The ten-hour drive ahead feels like both an eternity and a blink—too long for the restless energy swirling in my mind, but not long enough to prepare for everything that awaits me.
For the first few hours, I bury myself in my handwritten notes and maps, combing through every page for something I might have missed—a misplaced marking, an overlooked clue.
I attempt to upload my new theories to my online research files, but the truck jolts over the winding mountain road, making typing impossible.
I eventually give up, and switch to jotting down the swirling thoughts in my mind while bracing myself against the door as the driver expertly weaves through the switchbacks.
When we finally stop for lunch and a bathroom break at a roadside dhaba, or food stand, I practically tumble out of the jeep, rubbing my numb backside. The scent of sizzling spices and fresh bread hits me first, followed by the comforting warmth of the food stall’s tandoori oven.
The hot aloo gobi—a fragrant mix of potatoes and cauliflower coated in a rich, spiced sauce—welcomes me back to the flavors I’ve missed.
I tear off a piece of paratha, a seasoned flatbread, using it to scoop up the curry, the familiar heat spreading through my belly.
A final bite of tangy mango pickle puckers my lips, its tartness a perfect contrast to the rich flavor combination.
As I sip my steaming chai, warmth seeps into my fingers, reminding me of the last time I held a clay cup like this.
Then, the night had been crisp, the fire crackling, and beyond its flickering glow, a pair of luminous eyes watched me from the dark.
A tendril of fear mixed with something hotter curls down my spine at the memory, and I still can’t help but wonder, who—or what—did they belong to?
Part of me hopes to see them again. The other part knows I can’t afford the distraction. Winter is closing in fast, and once the snows settle in, my search will be over. I don’t even know when the plant will reemerge—early spring? Late summer? Next year? But I’m running out of time.
At least I’d had the foresight to keep Ben away from the small savings my mother had tucked away for me. After she died, I’d been blindsided to learn she had somehow managed to set aside a little nest egg—scraped together, no doubt, from the things she denied herself.
The discovery had been a gut punch. All those years I’d complained about secondhand clothes and off-brand sneakers, never realizing what it must have cost her to make sure I had even that.
Every Christmas, there were presents under the tree—even when I knew money was tight. But I can’t remember a single time she bought something nice for herself. She must have made so many quiet sacrifices—things she went without, needs she pushed aside—all so I’d have something to fall back on.
And now, I have no choice but to use it.
I’ve missed her every day since she’s been gone—but never have I wished she was here more than in this moment.
I can’t help but wonder what it was like for her to also know her time was running out and wish for her guidance.
Ask her all the questions I didn’t think to ask when I was caught up in the business of caring for her, and the horror of watching her die from a disease that had no treatment. No cure.
Although I cannot turn to her, I hope I can still depend on Sita, my guide turned friend. I need her help not just to help navigate, translate, and smooth the way, but because I can’t face this final summit for survival alone.
We load back into the jeep, and I force my thoughts away from my fears. Instead, I manifest success. I picture myself trekking through the rugged terrain, scanning for the heart shaped leaves and small iridescent flowers, their delicate shimmer nearly lost in the vastness of the mountains.
A ray of watery sunlight pierces the winter sky, glinting off something just ahead—just like in the attic back home.
My breath catches as I rush forward, heart pounding.
I drop to my knees, hands trembling as I cradle the fragile blossom, the culmination of everything I’ve been searching for.
Its luminescent blue-violet matches my own unusual eye color, another gift from my mother.
Somewhere in the distance, an engine rumbles, creeping into the edges of my awareness like a half-formed thought. The sound feels out of place in this serene place, splintering the dream as the jeep jolts to a stop.
My head snaps up, disoriented, my heart still racing like I had actually been kneeling there at my discovery.
The vision dissolves, fading like a fogged breath in the cold morning air.
I blink against the sudden shift in reality, realizing that I must have drifted off—stress and back-to-back travel finally catching up with me despite the rough roads.
With a groan, I stretch and climb out of the jeep, my muscles stiff from the long, winding journey. The crisp mountain air bites at my skin, but despite the ache in my body, something inside me feels lighter. It almost feels like coming home.
Only a few days have passed since I stood in this very spot, waving goodbye to this little guesthouse. But it feels like a lifetime ago—a different world, a different woman. I’ve returned back to Migdhari, but I am forever changed.
I follow the familiar worn path to the main lobby, the bells above the door tinkling softly as a wave of incense curls around me in greeting. The owner looks up, his mouth falling open in surprise before his expression melts into a warm smile, deepening the weathered lines on his face.
“Dahlia-ji! I thought you had returned home.” Tenzig hurries over and presses his hands together with a slight bow. “Namaste.”
“Namaste,” I reply, mirroring the gesture. A sad smile tugs at my lips. “I did.”
He studies me for a moment, then nods as if he understands something I don’t yet have words for.
“The mountains have called you back,” he says simply. “So, you must answer.”
There’s no judgment in his tone. No question, no expectation. Just an acceptance I hadn’t realized I needed. As if flying half way around the globe and back is the most normal thing in the world.
“You are tired,” he continues, already turning toward the hallway. “Come, come. I will show you to your room.”
I follow him, grateful for the kindness.
His hospitality is a balm to my raw, aching heart.
When he opens the door to my room, a wave of relief washes over me.
It’s the same one I stayed in before and nothing has changed.
It is a simple space with a single bed, a chest of drawers, and a small desk.
Modest. Practical. But as I step inside, I realize it feels more like home than the house I so hastily abandoned.
“Come to the lounge when you are ready for tea,” he says before departing.