Chapter 1 - NEW SKIES , OLD PROMISES

Hyderabad, India – 04:10 a.m.

A half‑packed suitcase lay on Ayush Verma’s bed like a gaping mouth, its zipper teeth waiting hungrily for the last odds and ends. Shirts were folded with the clumsy haste of a boy who still hadn’t decided which colors said responsible young adult and which screamed tourist caught in the rain.

“Beta, at least roll the socks—space is not unlimited!” his mother hissed, hovering at the door again. For the hundredth time that night her sari pallu fluttered like a warning flag as she marched in, reorganized a stack of T‑shirts, and slipped a pouch of haldi‑kumkum between layers of denim “for good energy.”

Ayush bit back a smile. If socks bring world peace, I’ll roll a thousand.

Down the hall, his father hummed a stray Kishore Kumar tune while fitting a TSA lock onto the second suitcase. Pride made his shoulders square, but every few minutes his fingers lingered on the buckle—as if testing whether it could keep an ocean from separating father and son.

Outside the window the streetlamp flickered, catching a silver glint on Aditi’s scooter and Girish’s rust‑red backpack. They’d stayed late—past the tearful group selfies and the rather un‑cinematic roadside chai—to squeeze in one more round of teasing:

“Don’t forget us when you’re sipping fancy Italian cappuccini,” Aditi had warned, eyes shining.

“And send pictures of Roman girls—purely for…academic research,” Girish had added, earning a smack on the arm.

Now those echoes thumped in Ayush’s chest, equal parts ache and excitement. Rome. Art. Coffee. Freedom.

He zipped the suitcase shut with a decisive zzrrt. “Ma, I promise—no trusting random strangers, pepper spray in the front pocket, and I’ll call every Sunday. Happy?”

She wasn’t, but she settled for fussing over his collar instead. His father clasped Ayush’s shoulder, warm and steady. “Live your life, son. Just remember where home is.”

Ayush nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. I’ll build a second home, Baba—one you’ll be proud to visit.

10 Hours Later – Fiumicino Airport, Rome

Jet‑lag tasted like cardboard in his mouth, but wonder crashed over it the moment automatic doors whooshed open. Cool autumn air carried hints of roasted chestnuts and diesel, and the sky spread out an impossible Mediterranean blue he’d only seen on postcards taped to his study desk.

Beautiful, he exhaled. This is really happening.

He fumbled with two suitcases, the backpack strap digging into his shoulder. Seconds later a hard body slammed into him. Luggage skidded. Ayush staggered, winded.

“I’m so sorry!” he burst out, scrambling to steady both of them. “Are you—”

The man who’d collided with him looked down with glacial detachment. Black overcoat, sharp jaw, hair slicked back as if every strand feared stepping out of line. His charcoal eyes held Ayush as casually as one might regard a stain on marble.

Cold. A shiver crawled beneath Ayush’s hoodie.

The stranger’s lip curled—a silent verdict. He brushed invisible dust from his sleeve. Somewhere behind him a voice barked in Italian, “Vin— signore, l’auto è pronta!”

Without a word, the man pivoted and strode toward a line of dark SUVs. Security detail, earpieces, tinted windows. Gone.

Ayush blinked. In the sudden hush he heard his own heart and the squeak of a suitcase wheel.

What the hell was his problem?

But the airport swallowed the question. People surged around him—tourists juggling maps, children in puffy jackets, students waving university folders. Soon the black convoy rolled away, its presence no more than a ripple in exhaust fumes.

Ayush shook off the chill, straightened his bags, and forced a grin. “Welcome to Rome, drama king,” he muttered to himself, “now get out of the way of the sunshine.”

San Lorenzo District – Student Housing

The share‑house looked like it had once been a polite three‑bedroom, then bullied by decades of budget remodelling into five mismatched units connected by labyrinthine corridors. His new flatmates—an architecture major from Bari, an economics wizard from Turin, a photography student from Spain, and an opera‑obsessed Korean cellist—welcomed him with reheated pizza and a chorus of Ciao! over badly tuned guitars. The walls were thin, the rent split evenly, and someone’s dubious abstract mural glowed beneath a string of fairy lights.

Ayush loved it at first sight.

That night, after plugging in adapters and taping Aditi’s parting Polaroid above his desk, he filled the tiny kitchen with the smell of pickles. Laughter drifted in from the living room: strangers crashing onto beanbags, debating Serie A teams, arguing about whether pineapple belonged on pizza.

Home was suddenly a plural word.

Day 3 – Café Espresso, Via Merulana

“Benvenuto, ragazzo!” The café owner, Signora Lucia, clapped flour from her hands and shoved a pale‑blue apron at Ayush. “You said you can make filter coffee, yes? Good. Here we do espresso, macchiato, maritozzi sweet buns—everything fast, bello, and with heart. Understood?”

Ayush’s eyes danced over chrome machines, polished cups, the rainbow of gelato in its freezer case. He tied the apron tight. “Understood, Signora. Let’s do magic.”

And he did. The hiss of steam, the dark stream of rich espresso, the sprinkle of cocoa over frothed milk—each cup carried a piece of home and a spark of Rome’s promise. By closing time his arms ached, but smiles from regulars felt like tiny trophies.

Lucia patted his cheek. “Sunshine, that’s what you are. Keep it.”

He promised he would.

Midnight – A New City’s Lullaby

In his narrow bed, Ayush replayed the airport incident. Those eyes—sharp, assessing, almost offended by his existence. He chuckled into the pillow. He probably sneers at puppies too.

Rome breathed outside: scooters buzzing down cobblestones, church bells marking the hour, distant laughter from a trattoria’s late diners. Adventure thrummed in his veins.

It’s not like we’ll meet again,” he whispered to the ceiling.

The city answered with silence… and perhaps, somewhere across town, the faint click of a glass set down by a man in a black overcoat, pausing as if his day were not quite finished.

Ayush rolled onto his side, already drafting messages to Aditi and Girish, unaware that destiny was far less punctual—and far more persistent—than any flight schedule.

Tomorrow, classes would begin. Tomorrow, the café would open at dawn. Tomorrow—

But tonight, Rome and Ayush Verma introduced themselves under a shared moon, each brimming with secrets the other had yet to learn.

End of Chapter 1

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