The Stranger Beneath The Banyan Tree

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The morning mist clung to the monastery like a shroud, weaving through ancient stone corridors and curling around the prayer wheels that spun slowly with the breeze. The scent of incense floated lazily, blending with the soft murmur of monks reciting their morning chants. Somewhere in the distance, a monk struck the meditation bell, the low, humming sound rolling across the hills like a heartbeat of the earth itself.

Tucked between the towering mountains, far from cities and crowds, the monastery was a world of silence and sacredness—a place where time moved at the pace of a prayer.

Among the saffron robes and whispered chants, Amara was a burst of wild energy.

Barefoot, wearing a simple grey robe two sizes too large, she darted through the courtyard, her small hands outstretched toward a drifting butterfly. Her laughter was rare, precious, like sunlight breaking through thick clouds.

To her, this was home. It was all she knew. For four years, the monastery had been her entire world—safe, silent, sacred.

From his spot by the cracked stone steps, Lama Rinzen watched her quietly, his prayer beads slipping through his fingers. His heart warmed at the sight of her joy, and smiled watching her childishness. There was peace in the moment—but under it, an unease had started to stir in his heart, as if the wind itself carried a warning.

Down the steep path leading to the village, the sound of tires on gravel shattered the stillness.

A car approached—sleek, black, humming with the low growl of restrained power. It moved like a beast made of steel and ambition, utterly foreign against the backdrop of crumbling stone and fluttering prayer flags. It gleamed under the pale sun, polished to a mirror finish that reflected the monastery’s ancient stones back at it—as if the modern world mocked the old one.

The car came to a stop beneath the ancient banyan tree that had stood at the monastery's threshold for centuries. Its roots snaked into the earth like veins of time itself.

The door opened with a soft click, and a man stepped out.

He was tall, sharply built, wearing a dark suit so perfectly tailored it seemed to command the very air around him. Silver cufflinks gleamed at his wrists; an expensive watch peeked from beneath his sleeve catching the faint morning light, which alone could rebuild the monastery three times over. Every move he made was calculated, precise. Everything about him screamed – control, wealth, power.

He paused, surveying the monastery with a blank expression—the kind of cold detachment of a man used to owning everything he set his eyes upon.

But there was a flicker—barely there—in his gaze. The man’s heart, used to the cold calculations of boardrooms and empires, gave an unfamiliar lurch. A confusion. A memory he couldn’t quite grasp. An attachment.

Amara had stopped at the edge of the courtyard, her little body half-hidden behind a prayer wheel. She peeked out, her dark curls messy from running, her wide, curious eyes locked onto the man.

Something inside her stirred.

Not fear.

Not curiosity.

Something older.

Something deeper.

A tugging at her very soul, like a forgotten melody half-remembered.

The man’s gaze swept over the courtyard, but the moment his eyes landed on her, the world seemed to narrow. The distant chanting faded. The morning breeze stilled.

For a long, frozen heartbeat, they simply stared at each other—two souls standing on opposite sides of a bridge neither could see, but both could feel.

The man’s chest tightened with a foreign ache he couldn't name. He took a hesitant step forward, dust curling around his polished shoes. His voice, when he finally spoke, was rough—raw from disuse or emotion, he couldn't tell.

“Who... are you?”

Amara blinked up at him. She didn’t know him. She had never seen him before. And yet, her small heart spoke before her mind could form doubts.

“I think I've been waiting for you.”, she said, her voice, a soft, certain whisper.

The man flinched—only slightly, but enough. Something inside him cracked open, letting in light he hadn't even known he'd shut out.

From the stone arch above the courtyard, Lama Rinzen stiffened, his prayer beads slipping through his fingers and scattering onto the stones with a muted clatter.

He knew.

The past was no longer sleeping.

And two souls, long separated by time and fate, had finally found their way back to each other.

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End of Chapter One.

To be continued....

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