She smiled. “Because when people hide behind wealth, they’re surrounded by things—not people.”
That night, they talked until dawn—about rain in the mountains, warm bread, unfinished lives. The mansion felt less cold afterward.
Rohan changed. He smiled more. Asked her opinions. Shared tea. Something unnamed grew between them.
Until rumors came.
A business partner warned him, “She’s after your property.”
For one brief moment, Rohan believed it.
The next morning, Kavya was gone. A letter lay on the table.
“You gave me respect and trust. I’m leaving before I become a shadow in your story.”
He searched for weeks. Nothing.
Months later, on a work trip to Himachal Pradesh, Rohan saw a small bakery.
“Kavya’s Marigold.”
Inside, she stood—flour on her hands, the same gentle smile.
“I thought you’d never come,” she whispered.
He pulled a dried marigold from his pocket. “You didn’t take anything from me. You took my fear.”
They spoke again—slowly, honestly. Rohan kept returning, helping bake, serving tea, sitting quietly as life passed.
The city no longer called to him.