Chapter 3: Between Dreams and Dust

The storm had quieted outside, but inside Arya, winds still howled.

She stared at Arnav, breath held, heart caught on the hook of unfinished memories.

"Her name was…"

But he didn’t finish it.

The words hung there—suspended, aching—like a lantern in a windstorm, flickering, but never quite going out.

Before Arya could speak, a voice pierced the moment, cutting through the curtain of rain like a blade.

“Sir! The second team just checked in—there’s been a shift near the west slope!”

Arnav turned toward the voice. Duty yanked him away like a tide pulling back a fragile shell. Still, he glanced at Arya over his shoulder—his expression unreadable - but not unfeeling.

“We’ll talk later,” he said softly, voice frayed with hesitation. Then, stepping back, he added, “Come on, it’s getting late.”

Arya followed him in silence, their boots sinking into wet earth. The world around them was muffled—mist curling through tree trunks, the occasional drip of rainwater from high branches, a distant rumble of the mountain shifting in its sleep. The fog thickened behind them, swallowing the trail as if nature itself wanted to erase their presence, to press delete on this accidental reunion.

Back at the shelter, the familiar scent of wet boots, antiseptic, and damp tarps clung stubbornly to the air. The shelter buzzed quietly with soft murmurs, occasional coughs, and the rustle of pages and blankets. Outside, rain still tapped against the tin roof like fingers, trying to remember a forgotten tune.

Arya peeled off her soaked coat and let it slump into the corner. She collapsed into her cot, the thin mattress sighing beneath her. Her hands, almost instinctively, reached into her satchel and pulled out the cloth-wrapped bracelet—the one from earlier that day. It had the feel of something ancient and fragile, something sacred. She carefully tucked it beneath her pillow, cradled like a secret too precious to explain.

The torchlight flickered once and went out. Darkness returned, gentle and unsettling.

Sleep did not come easily. And when it finally did, it brought her to the fractured edges of memory—unhealed and unfinished.

She was small again. A child with scraped knees, a stubborn ponytail, and a will that refused to be softened by the rains outside the orphanage walls. She sat on the cold floor, crayons clutched tightly in one hand, a blank sheet of paper in front of her. The colors were broken, just like everything else in that room.

Beside her sat a boy. Slightly older. Hair wild and eyes softer than the world had ever deserved. Navu. That’s what they called him.

Arnav—before he had a last name. Before medals and missions. Before boundaries and silence.

He was her shadow and sunlight. Her partner in crime, her mirror. He laughed too easily and cried in secret. He once traded his only toy for a necklace made from tin and glass—a moon strung on a thread. He gave it to her the way only children can give: with full hearts and no explanations.

It was too big for her neck, so she tied it around her wrist.

It became the only thing that ever truly felt like hers.

Then, one day, the car came.

And everything changed.

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