The dream feels different that night.
It doesn't begin with rain.
It doesn't begin with blood.
It begins with sunlight.
Anvi is standing near the balcony of their bedroom, her back to him, white curtains moving softly around her. She is wearing the pale blue saree she wore on their engagement.
The one he once told her didn't suit her.
The one she wore anyway.
"Anvi," he says.
His voice does not echo this time.
She turns slowly.
She smiles.
Not the distant smile from memories.
Not the fading one from hospital corridors.
A real one.
Alive.
"You're late," she says.
His heart stops.
Because she has never spoken in his dreams before.
Never this clearly.
Never this present.
He takes a step toward her.
And she steps back.
"Find me," she whispers.
The curtains lift violently with wind.
The room darkens.
And she is gone.
Amay wakes up with a sharp breath.
3:17 AM.
The same time he wakes almost every night.
But this time his heart is racing.
Not with grief.
With something else.
The word echoes in his head.
Find me.
He sits upright.
For the first time in six months, his pulse does not feel heavy.
It feels urgent.
His mind begins replaying the night of the accident.
Her fear.
Her eyes.
The way she kept looking in the rearview mirror.
The way her fingers trembled when she unlocked her car.
She was running from something.
Or someone.
And he never got the chance to ask.
His jaw tightens.
A thought - small but powerful - forms.
What if her death wasn't just rain?
What if there was something he missed?
Hope does not arrive like warmth.
It arrives like suspicion.
And suspicion is something Amay understands very well.
He swings his legs off the bed.
For the first time in months -
He does not lie back down.
He does not close his eyes to chase another dream.
He stands.
Walks to the mirror.
Studies the hollow man staring back.
"Find you," he repeats quietly.
If there is even one unanswered question...
If there is even one hidden truth...
Then death will have to wait.
Because Amay Mathur does not leave unfinished business behind.
Not in this world.
Or the next.
As soon as, the golden rays hit the horizon, he opens the curtains of window and let the warmth touch he body.
He doesn't think twice.
He picks up his phone.
His voice is rough from disuse.
"Kareem."
There is silence on the other end. Then a startled, "Sir?"
"Take the car out. We're going to the Kuldevi temple."
Kareem almost drops the phone.
For six months, he has been trying to get this man out of the house.
And now-
Hope.
It flickers in his chest so suddenly it almost hurts.
Kashi Maa watches from the doorway as Amay walks past her.
Showered.
Shaved.
Not fully alive.
But not entirely absent either.
Her eyes fill quietly.
She doesn't say anything.
She folds her hands in silent gratitude.
The drive is quiet.
The city thins.
Roads widen.
The air grows colder as they approach the temple near Nandi Hills.
The sky is painted in fading orange and bruised grey.
Clouds hang low.
The wind carries that faint scent of wet soil and incense.
Amay steps out.
The temple bells echo softly in the morning air.
He walks inside.
Bows down before the deity.
Closes his eyes.
But he doesn't ask for her back.
He doesn't bargain.
He doesn't plead.
He simply stands there.
Still.
As if acknowledging something larger than his grief.
When he steps out, his eyes fall on the small pond beside the temple.
He walks toward it without thinking.
There is a stone bench near the water.
He sits.
The pond is full of lotus flowers.
Pink and white.
Calm.
Unbothered.
The reflection of the rising sun trembles in the water.
In the distance, Nandi Hills rise quietly against the dimming sky.
For a moment, the world feels untouched by tragedy.
And memory comes.
Uninvited.
"You know," he had teased her once, "there's a rule about this temple."
She had narrowed her eyes. "What rule?"
"If a married couple visits together, they have to consummate their marriage that night. It's tradition."
Her eyes had widened.
Then immediately she looked away.
"Stop making up things," she muttered.
He had leaned closer.
"I'm serious."
She tried to distract him.
Pointing at random trees.
Talking about prasad.
Asking unnecessary questions.
But her ears had turned red.
Her cheeks flushed.
And he had smiled -
Because she was embarrassed.
And because she was his.
He remembers how the wind had lifted her hair that day.
How she avoided his eyes.
How she walked a little faster.
As if distance could protect her from him.
He closes his eyes now.
The bench feels colder without her beside him.
The wind sharper.
The silence heavier.
He was lost in that memory -
In her blush.
In her shy anger.
In the softness she never allowed him to see fully.
And then -
Something shifts.
A sudden gust of wind ripples through the pond.
The lotus petals tremble.
The temple bells ring loudly without anyone touching them.
Amay opens his eyes.
He senses it before he sees it.
A presence.
The bench dips slightly beside him.
Amay turns.
A man is sitting there.
He doesn't know when he arrived.
The path behind the bench is empty.
The temple courtyard is silent.
No footsteps.
No sound of approach.
Just... there.
The man is dressed in a simple white kurta pyjama.
No footwear.
His hair is streaked with grey, falling softly to his shoulders.
There is no age to his face.
Not young.
Not old.
And there is something else.
A strange stillness.
A glow that does not shine - but settles.
Like moonlight.
He is looking at the pond.
Not at Amay.
"Do you want answers?" the man asks quietly.
Amay stiffens.
He doesn't respond immediately.
Does this man know his questions?
Does he even know there are questions?
Before Amay can speak, the man continues.
"You loved your wife like no one does now. Not in this time."
Amay turns sharply toward him.
His jaw tightens.
"How do you-"
"It doesn't matter how I know," the man interrupts gently.
"What matters is whether you want your answers."
The wind grows colder.
The sky darkens a shade.
Amay lets out a hollow chuckle.
"She's dead."
The words still feel foreign.
"Whatever answers you're talking about... it's impossible."
His eyes burn.
Not with tears.
With exhaustion.
The man finally turns toward him.
His gaze is steady.
"Time," he says softly, "is beyond life and death."
Silence stretches between them.
For the first time in months-
Something moves in Amay's eyes.
Not grief.
Not despair.
Curiosity.
Dangerous.
Fragile.
"If you want to know," the man continues, "you will have to uplift yourself."
Amay says nothing.
He listens the way a child listens to a story.
"You must leave the luxuries of this world. Leave the comfort of wealth. Immerse yourself in what is beyond your understanding."
The pond is still now.
Lotuses unmoving.
The man studies him carefully.
"You are already halfway there," he says.
"There is no attachment left in you for anything material."
And it is true.
Amay feels nothing for his house.
His money.
His power.
All of it feels distant.
Irrelevant.
"Go to the Himalayas," the man says calmly.
"Search for Brahma Samhita Ashram."
The name feels unfamiliar.
Sacred.
Heavy.
"There," he finishes, "you will have your answers."
The wind rises again.
Temple bells echo once more.
Amay blinks-
And the space beside him is empty.
No footsteps.
No retreating figure.
Only the cold stone bench.
And the lotus pond reflecting a darkening sky.
For the first time in six months-
Amay does not feel like dying.
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