Tonight, they didn’t.
His thoughts returned, again and again.
The courtyard. The heat. The old woman in his arms.
And the title.
Thakur Sa.
It had not settled then. It refused to settle now.
Then the office.
Meera across from him, placing the file on his desk, watching him read through it.
He had turned the last page, seen the cost, signed without question.
Something had shifted in her then. He saw it now. The way her gaze had lingered, as if adjusting something she had believed about him.
She hadn’t asked. He had answered anyway.
Until I sell, it is my responsibility.
At that time, it had felt enough. Now, the truth stood clear. She had not been watching the decision.
She had been watching him.
The signature without hesitation. The words spoken before she could ask. The door he closed before the conversation could open into anything deeper.
He exhaled and kept walking.
The Haveli at night felt like a different world.
Lamps burned low in carved niches. Shadows stretched across stone. The air had cooled, carrying the fragrance of jasmine from the inner gardens.
He crossed the main corridor, passed the portraits, paused at the fountain. Water shone under the moonlight.
Memory rose uninvited.
His father’s hand. Laughter against these same walls. A boy who had belonged here without question.
He moved before the thought could settle.
His feet turned toward the upper terrace, drawn by instinct, by memory his mind had not accepted.
At the top, the sky opened. Wide. Clear. Filled with stars no city ever allowed.
He stepped onto the terrace… and stopped.
Meera sat at the far end, on the low wall, her back to him. Her legs folded beneath her. She had changed into a pale cotton kurta. Her hair fell loose, catching the dim light.
He should have cleared his throat. Announce himself. Not stand in the dark, watching a woman who had no idea she was being watched.
He didn’t move.
The night breeze lifted the ends of her hair. She tilted her head back. Her profile cut clean against the stars. The line of her jaw, the curve of her throat, the stillness of someone entirely at ease in her own space.
He was absolutely not staring.