Authors POV

Harsh's cottage stood quietly at the edge of the woods — a sloping roof, faded green shutters, and ivy curling along the windows like something out of a storybook. It looked like it belonged to someone who kept his life simple and his doors rarely open. But today, the door swung wide.

He carried her in with careful arms, her head tucked against his shoulder, her breath light but steady. The wooden floor creaked beneath his boots as he stepped inside. A clock ticked gently in the corner. The fireplace hadn’t been lit in days. He laid her down on the bed — his bed — and stood back, breathless. The room smelled faintly of cedar and old paper. His jacket, still on the chair. A chipped mug from yesterday. And now, a girl with a bleeding temple and a story he didn’t know.

Outside the window, wind rustled the pine trees. He fetched the first-aid kit, warm water, a towel. She didn’t move as he cleaned the blood from her temple — just a shallow cut, thankfully — but her lashes fluttered occasionally like her body was somewhere between worlds.

Harsh sat beside her, not too close. His eyes, despite himself, lingered on her face. She looked... lost. Not just now. Not just because of the accident. But deeply, like someone who hadn’t belonged anywhere for a long time. He grabbed a first-aid kit and knelt beside her, wiping the wound with cotton and antiseptic. His hands moved carefully — but his eyes occasionally wandered to her face. He speak softly to himself, "You’re... actually really beautiful. Even in pain. Who are you, mystery girl?"

Then — movement.

Her hand twitched.

Her eyes opened.

At first, they were unfocused. Then they locked on him.

And everything changed.

Sia woke up in an unfamiliar room, under an unfamiliar ceiling. The first thing she saw was Harsh — a strange man leaning over her.

Her breath caught.

She jerked upright in an instant, arms scrambling, breath sharp.

"Wh-where am I?" Her voice cracked.

Harsh stood quickly, hands up.

"It’s okay. You were in an accident. You fainted. I brought you here."

But her eyes widened with recognition — not of him, but of something deeper. Darker.

“No... no, no...” she whispered, voice trembling. “Not again.”

He took a step forward. She flinched.

"Please," he said gently, "I just want to help—"

“No!” Her voice rose. She pressed herself against the wall behind the bed, shaking. “Stay away from me! Don’t touch me!”

She was breathing fast, chest rising and falling, as if the room was closing in on her.

“Did he send you?” Her voice broke into a whisper. “Did he find me?”

Harsh froze. His heart dropped. Something in her words felt jagged — personal.

“What? No, no one sent me. I don’t even know who—”

“Don’t lie!” she cried. Her hands went to her ears like she was trying to block out a memory. “You’re one of them… you’re lying… I know what this is…”

Harsh took a step back, his voice barely above a whisper now.

“I swear, I don’t know anything about your past. I just saw you fall. I only wanted to help.”

She was crying now, shaking.

“I escaped. I ran so far... I thought it was over…”

The panic was spiraling. She wasn't in this room anymore — she was somewhere else. Somewhere she never wanted to go back to.

Harsh lowered himself to the floor, keeping distance.

Inside the room, the air was heavy.

Sia clutched the blanket around her like a lifeline. Her breath came in broken pieces. Her eyes — wide and wild — scanned every corner of the unfamiliar space. Her past had found her. Somehow, it had found her.

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. Could only feel the weight of old fear pressing against her ribs like iron.

Then—

BANG.

The front door slammed open downstairs.

The sound shattered the moment like glass.

Sia flinched.

Footsteps. Boots against wood. Fast. Angry.

A voice rang out — sharp, unmistakable, female.

“Harsh Agarwal, how dare you—!”

Harsh turned instinctively, heart leaping. He rushed down the wooden stairs, skipping two at a time. The cottage creaked with urgency. At the foot of the staircase, she stood like a storm: Amaya.

Tall, lean, and glowing with fury. Her long wavy hair was tied up in a loose braid, strands escaping around her flushed face. A charcoal sweater, black jeans tucked into brown boots, and a tote bag slung over her shoulder. She looked like someone who could throw a punch if you made the mistake of assuming she wouldn’t.

Harsh blinked. “Amaya?”