Whispers of the Past

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The balcony doors stood open, and the night wind drifted in, carrying the faint scent of rain and city lights. Rajveer stood there in his black bathrobe, hair still damp from the shower, water tracing down his jawline like threads of silver. The city below glittered, but his eyes were fixed on the vast nothingness above — that cold stretch of sky that reminded him of her silence.

He exhaled slowly, the smoke of his breath dissolving into the wind.

Turning around, his gaze landed on the painting — the same ancient portrait that had become both his curse and comfort.

The lamp beside it flickered once, and for a second, it felt like she moved.

Like her eyes — those eyes of molten amber — truly met his.

He took a slow step closer, his voice breaking the silence.

“Kahan hain aap, Samyukta?”

Where are you, Samyukta?

He whispered again, this time softer, trembling with something raw.

“Aapki bahut yaad aa rahi hai... aapke bahon mein mujhe chain ki neend sona hai.”

I miss you terribly... I just want to sleep peacefully in your arms again.

His reflection in the glass trembled with the candlelight, and for a brief moment, he wasn’t Rajveer — the ruthless heir of Rana Corp — but Rudra, the man who once lost everything for love.

He raised his hand and brushed his thumb along the frame of the painting, tracing her face as if he could feel her warmth through centuries.

“You’re the only peace I’ve ever known,” he murmured, voice fading like a dying ember.

A sudden gust of wind blew through the balcony, making the curtains sway violently. The candlelight flickered again, and this time — he swore he heard it.

A faint whisper.

His name.

“Rajveer…”

His chest tightened. He looked around the empty penthouse, but no one was there. Only the echo of that voice — her voice — dissolved in the wind, leaving behind a heavy silence and a man trapped between two lifetimes.

Rajveer froze. The voice still echoed faintly in his head — soft, trembling, almost like a prayer whispered against his ear.

But there was no one there. Only the rustle of the curtains and the quiet hum of the city below.

His hand clenched unconsciously.

It’s happening again.

For a long moment, he stood still, staring at the painting — her painting — eyes locked onto those painted irises that seemed too alive to be just art.

His breath quickened, his jaw tensed. “You’re not real,” he muttered, as if convincing himself. “You can’t be.”

But the truth clawed at him — he wanted her to be. He needed her to be.

The wind grew colder; goosebumps rose along his skin. The silk curtains danced wildly, and for an instant, he could almost see a silhouette — faint, translucent, wearing the same ornaments Samyukta once wore in his dreams.

His vision blurred. The balcony, the lights, everything twisted in a slow, dizzy haze.

He stumbled back, pressing a hand against his temple. The voice returned, softer this time — like the brush of a feather against his thoughts.

>Rajveer... Apne hamein marne kyun diya? "

“Rajveer… why did you let me die?”

He gasped. The breath left his lungs like a wound reopening. “No…” he whispered, shaking his head violently. “No, no… you’re gone… you’re gone—”

He shut his eyes tight, and when he opened them, the balcony was still again. The night was quiet. The painting was lifeless once more — just oil, canvas, and illusion.

He let out a shaky exhale, running a hand through his hair.

“Hallucinations,” he told himself under his breath, half laughing, half breaking.

“You really are losing your mind, Rajveer.”

Still, even after retreating inside, he couldn’t resist one last glance over his shoulder.

And there she was — Samyukta — smiling faintly from the frame, the corners of her lips curved in that same knowing way.

Maybe it was just the trick of the light…

Or maybe, somewhere between madness and memory — she had answered.

............................

The voice slipped through the air again — faint, trembling — “Rajveer… tumne humein marne kyun diya?”

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t echo.

It simply existed — like a forgotten melody suddenly remembered in the middle of silence.

Rajveer’s chest tightened. The warmth drained from his face, and his fingers went numb around the glass of wine he was holding. It slipped and shattered on the marble, crimson liquid spreading like spilled blood.

He turned sharply toward the painting.

Her eyes — those painted, ancient eyes — seemed alive again.

He took a step closer, his breath shallow.

“Samyukta…” he whispered, barely holding his voice steady.

“I didn’t— I couldn’t save you.”

The words broke halfway, trembling with guilt that even time hadn’t buried.

A tear rolled down his cheek — his first in years — glistening under the dim golden light before vanishing into the corner of his lips.

He brushed his hand through his hair, almost laughing at himself. “You’re not real,” he muttered. “You’re dead… centuries dead.”

But deep down, he didn’t believe his own words.

He felt her — in the breeze that brushed his neck, in the soft scent of sandalwood that suddenly filled the room, in the weight of the memories that refused to fade.

He sank into the couch, eyes never leaving the painting.

His mind whispered, Hallucination… just another hallucination…

Yet his heart whispered, No. She’s here.

For a long time, he sat there in silence, caught between sanity and devotion. The city outside had long fallen asleep, but Rajveer — Rudra reborn — stayed wide awake, staring at the only face that could still make him weak.

He leaned back on the couch, exhaustion slowly crawling into his veins. The dim lamp flickered beside the painting, and the scent of rain mixed with the faint perfume that shouldn’t exist anymore — jasmine and sandalwood, the scent she once wore.

He closed his eyes.

And then he heard it.

A soft laughter — light, melodic, and familiar enough to shatter him.

Samyukta.

It came from somewhere distant, yet achingly close — like the echo of a dream whispering through time. The laughter circled around him, brushing past his ear, teasing, calling.

“Rajveer…”

The voice was playful now, almost childlike.

“Dekho zara, hum aapko kuch dikhana chahte hain…”

Look, beloved, I wish to show you something…

He flinched, eyes still shut, trying to steady his breath. His heartbeat pounded in his ears as the air around him began to change — colder, heavier, older.

The city’s hum faded, replaced by the distant neighing of horses, the clang of swords, and the chant of temple bells. The sound wrapped around him like fog — thick, suffocating, and irresistible.

He tried to open his eyes, but his body wouldn’t obey.

It was as if she had taken hold of his senses — leading him somewhere he wasn’t ready to go.

The laughter softened again, fading into the night, leaving behind only her voice — gentle, yearning, eternal.

“Chaliye Rajveer… yaad hai na, humara antim sandhya?”

Come, Rajveer… do you remember our final sunset?

A tear escaped his closed eyes. His lips trembled, whispering her name one last time before sleep finally claimed him — pulling him into the past he had buried, but which never stopped waiting.

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