The temple courtyard was bathed in a soft, golden warmth, the kind that clung to stone and skin alike. Morning chants had faded into memory, leaving behind the steady rustle of silk, the ring of distant bells, and the lingering scent of incense twined with jasmine. Atharva moved slowly through the quiet, his dhoti crisp around his ankles, the shawl over his shoulder damp with sandalwood and the weight of prayer. His skin, warm and honey-toned, caught glimmers of sunlight as he walked, barefoot and unhurried.

And then, he saw her.

Not in stillness, but in motion. She stood in the courtyard, turned slightly toward her friend, laughter tucked behind her smile, her voice low and close. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t meant to carry. But it did. It reached him.

She wore red. A red that seemed lit from within, rich and deep like flame beneath fabric. It wrapped around her in soft pleats and gold thread, bordered with purple so dark it nearly melted into shadow. The way it moved with her—the way she moved in it—brought to mind stories of Durga, the quiet power of a goddess not because she tries to be, but simply because she is.

And yet, as radiant as she was, something had fallen.

He noticed it near her feet. A string of jasmine, whole and unbroken, lying across the stone like a prayer offered too soon. It must have slipped from her hair without her realizing, leaving her braid unadorned, her crown incomplete.

He paused, for a breath.

Then he stepped forward.

Each footfall felt louder in the hush, though no one turned. The closer he got, the more he felt the space bend—not just toward her, but toward the moment forming between them. He stopped just before the garland, then crouched, careful not to let the folds of his dhoti brush the flowers. His fingers moved gently, reverently, as he gathered the string of jasmine from the warm stone. He didn’t rush. He didn’t speak.

As he stood, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Her friend. A glance. A nudge. Light, deliberate.

She turned.

Their eyes met, her laughter still lingering in the corners of her mouth, though quieter now. He felt it at once—the slight heat rising beneath his skin, the awareness that he’d been seen, not just by her, but by whatever small game had just passed between the two of them.

Still, he held out the mala between them, petals resting lightly against his fingers.

“It fell,” he said softly, more to the space between them than directly to her. “From your hair.”

She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

He glanced at the garland, then at her hair, then back again. His voice came a little slower this time, gentler, but edged with sincerity.

“If you're alright with it… would you like me to put it back?”