Snow crunched under Arya’s boots as she stepped out of the taxi. Her breath turned white in the Moscow air, and she pulled her scarf higher against the bite of winter. The city felt huge, heavy with history, every building older than the stories she’d grown up hearing at her grandmother’s knee.

She had come here for stories.

That was always her reason. New places made her want to write. Different streets, different skies they gave her new people to imagine, new lives to borrow for her novels. When the invitation had arrived, sealed with a golden crest, she’d laughed at first. Someone must’ve sent this to the wrong person, she told her mother. But then she saw her grandfather’s name inside, scrawled in handwriting that trembled with age. A note from a man in Russia Mealid Viktorov who had been her grandfather’s best friend once. A promise made between boys that had stretched across decades.

And now she was here, holding her sketchbook like a talisman, wondering if this frozen city might give her the character she’d been searching for.

The Mealid mansion wasn’t a house at all. It was a palace. Gold lights blazed from its tall windows, and the gates opened so smoothly it felt like something out of a dream. She thought she should have felt small, walking past statues and servants bowing and calling her “Young Miss.” But instead she felt oddly calm, like she’d stepped into the first chapter of a story that was already half-written.

Inside, she lost herself for a moment. Art filled every wall paintings, sculptures, things she had only ever seen in glossy books or tiny online images. Her fingers itched for her pencil. “I could make an entire novel out of just this room,” she whispered to herself.

And then she noticed him.

At first, it was just the flash of camera lights, the murmur of a crowd. Then her gaze caught his tall, sharp in a black suit, a man who looked as though the world had been made to orbit him. She knew that face. Everyone did. Adrian Mealid, the actor. The star.

He was smiling for them, the public smile that reached his lips but not his eyes. But when his gaze slid past the crowd and landed on her just her it changed. The smile wavered. Something alive flickered in his eyes, quick and unguarded.

Arya’s stomach flipped, heat rushing up her neck. She looked away too quickly, pretending to study the marble floor, her pulse skipping in her throat.

But Adrian didn’t look away. For the first time in years, the practiced charm cracked, and he felt something reckless, something dangerous and unfamiliar.

“She’s... exactly my type,” he thought, and the realization unsettled him.

Arya had come to Russia searching for inspiration. What she didn’t know what he couldn’t have guessed was that she had just stepped into the center of his story.

Arya Choudhury leaned back in her chair, staring at the half-written page on her laptop. The blinking cursor mocked her, almost as if it knew how stuck she was.

She had been working on her new novel for weeks, but something just didn’t feel right. The story was supposed to be her big comeback, yet no matter how much she wrote, the characters felt… empty.

Her male lead had no personality yet. Should he be cold and arrogant? Or warm and caring? Every time she tried, she ended up recycling the same old patterns she’d written before tragic one-sided love stories, bittersweet endings, lonely hearts.

Her readers had noticed, too.

Just last night, she had scrolled through the comments on her last book post.

“Please, unni, write a happy ending this time.”

“Why do you always make the second male lead suffer?”

“We want both leads to find love, not just one!”

Arya sighed, resting her chin on her palm. “A happy ending, huh? Maybe this time… I could try.”

But try with what? Her mind was a blank canvas.

As she was about to close the document, the door creaked open. Her assistant, Nabila, peeked inside, holding an envelope in her hand.

“Didi, this came for you. From the post office.”

Arya blinked. “A letter? In this age of emails?”

Nabila shrugged and placed it on her desk. “It looks important. Maybe from a publisher?”

Curiosity stirred. Arya reached for the envelope and carefully tore it open. Her eyes widened the moment she saw the letterhead ornate, with a seal she didn’t recognize.

It wasn’t from a publisher.

It was an invitation.

“To Ms. Arya Choudhury,

You are cordially invited to the private art exhibition of Mikhail Volkov, to be held in Moscow, Russia…”

Her lips parted in disbelief. “Russia? An art exhibition?”

She stared at the paper as if it might vanish. She had never even been outside Bangladesh before. Why would anyone in Russia invite her?

Clutching the letter, she hurried out of her room and found her mother arranging flowers in the living room. “Amma, look at this!”

Her mother adjusted her glasses and read the invitation. For a moment, silence filled the air. Then her mother sighed deeply, as though a door from the past had opened.

“Arya… it’s time you know something.”

Arya’s heart skipped. “Know what?”

Her mother placed the letter down and sat beside her. “Your grandfather. The man you always asked me about… He wasn’t just a businessman. He had a best friend. A Russian. They were like brothers, closer than anyone could imagine.”

Arya leaned forward, eager. “And this best friend… is connected to this?”

Her mother nodded. ''Yes. This exhibition—it’s by his grandson. Mikhail Volkov. Your grandfather and his grandfather shared a bond that even distance couldn’t break.''

'Then why didn’t you ever tell me?' Arya whispered.

Because some stories are too heavy for the young to carry. Her mother’s eyes softened. But now… perhaps it’s time. Still, Arya, remember this go if you must, but don’t stay. See the exhibition, meet them, and then return home. Promise me.

Arya clutched the invitation, her heart racing. She could feel something pulling her an invisible thread tying her fate to this letter.

Her grandfather’s secret. A Russian connection. And a story waiting to be uncovered.

She nodded, though her lips curved in a faint smile. Don’t worry, Mother. I’ll only stay a few days.

The quiet hum of the ceiling fan filled Arya’s room as she folded the last of her sketchbooks into her suitcase. Her fingers brushed over the worn leather cover of one in particular her favorite, filled with unfinished stories and quick drawings of characters she’d imagined late at night. For a moment, she hesitated. Leaving behind her comfort zone, her friends, her country it all felt heavier now that the moment was real.

Her mother stood silently in the doorway, watching her daughter tuck away the last pieces of home. “Arya,” her voice softened, though it carried a firm edge, “you’re really going.”

Arya looked up with a small smile. “Yes, Ma. It’s a chance I can’t waste. I’ll be working on my novels there, and...maybe I’ll find something new.”

Her mother stepped closer, her sari brushing lightly against the suitcase as she sat on the edge of the bed. “I know this is important for you. But Russia is far, and their ways are not ours. If something bad happens, don’t try to be strong alone. Do not stay there and suffer, do you understand?” She reached out, holding Arya’s hand tightly. "Come back quickly. Home will always wait for you."

Arya’s throat tightened at her mother’s words. She nodded, hiding her emotions with a playful grin. “I promise, Ma. I’ll come back. But don’t be surprised if I return with more stories than you can handle.”

Her mother laughed softly, brushing away the tear that threatened to fall from Arya’s cheek. “That’s my daughter. Always chasing stories.”

Across the world, in Russia, a different conversation was unfolding.

Adrian Mealid leaned against the tall window of his office, the skyline of the city stretching endlessly before him. His phone buzzed again the third call from his grandfather that day. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he picked it up.

“Adrian,” came the deep, commanding voice of his grandfather, leaving no room for argument, “you will return home immediately.”

Adrian’s brows furrowed. “Why? I have unfinished work here. What is so urgent?”

“You don’t need to question me,” the old man replied firmly. “Family matters require your presence. It is time you start taking responsibility.”

Something in his tone made Adrian pause. His grandfather was not a man to explain his decisions, and refusal was not an option. Still, confusion weighed heavily on him. What could possibly be so important?

“Yes, Grandfather,” he finally said, his voice cool, though his mind burned with questions.

When the call ended, Adrian set the phone down on the desk, staring at the dark glass of the window. Responsibility, his grandfather had said. The words echoed inside him, unsettling. He was used to pressure, to expectations, but this time felt different. As if a decision had already been made for him.

And somewhere between the packing of a suitcase in Bangladesh and the commanding voice of a Russian patriarch, two lives were being drawn onto the same path without either of them knowing.