Morning came softly, filtered through rain-streaked windows and the pale gray of the Assam sky. Nil woke to the low hum of the river, the water murmuring against the banks like a restless thought. He lingered on the balcony, letting the damp air cling to his skin, breathing in the scent of wet bamboo and earth. It was nothing like the city—here, silence was alive, and in it, he felt the stirrings of something he had almost forgotten: inspiration.
Roshni appeared again, carrying tea and a small bowl of fresh fruits. She moved quietly, her footsteps light against the wooden floor. "Good morning," she said. "Sleep well?"
"I think so," Nil replied, his voice rough from disuse. He noticed the way her hair caught the light of the morning, dark with streaks of bronze, the way her hands held the tray with a careful precision. Something in her calm presence made the world slow, as if he were seeing it through water.
He took the tea to his desk, the first words of his notebook waiting like old friends. His pen hovered over the page, hesitant, as though sensing the weight of this place. Then, slowly, words began to flow. Not a story yet, but fragments—images, impressions, lines of thought. The river, the rain, the creak of the floorboards. He wrote of light falling on bamboo leaves, of shadows stretching across walls, of a woman whose smile seemed to guard more than it revealed.
When he looked up, Roshni was watching him from the doorway. She said nothing, merely leaned against the frame, her expression unreadable. Nil felt the heat rise in his chest—not desire exactly, but something tender, charged, and quietly dangerous.
"I didn't mean to intrude," she said softly, though she did not move.
"You're not intruding," he replied. "It's… good to have someone here. Quietly."
She smiled faintly and retreated down the hall, leaving him with the scratching of his pen and the pulse of the river. Yet even in her absence, her presence lingered—like a shadow, or a memory.
The day passed slowly, the rain softening into drizzle. Nil explored the house and its surroundings, discovering small gardens, stone pathways, and corners of the homestay that seemed forgotten by time. Everywhere he went, he felt her eyes following him, not in a way that spooked him, but in a way that made him aware of the rhythm of this place and its keeper.
That evening, they sat on the balcony together, tea in hand, watching the river reflect the last light of day. The silence between them was not empty; it was full, charged with words that hovered just beyond reach.
"Do you always write like this?" Roshni asked finally, breaking the quiet.
"I don't know," Nil said. "I haven't written… properly, in a long time."
"You'll find it here," she said, eyes on the river, voice like a promise and a warning at once. "Something about this place… it gives and it takes."
Nil nodded, unsure if she meant the river, the hills, or herself. But he didn't need an answer. He felt it already—the pull, the quiet gravity of the homestay, and of Roshni, who seemed as much a part of the place as the wind or the rain.
That night, as he lay in bed listening to the river and the creaking of the old house, Nil realized that he was no longer just a visitor. He had stepped into a story larger than his own, a story that was beginning to write him even as he wrote it. And somewhere in the shadows of the homestay, behind the veiled calm of Roshni's smile, a secret waited—quiet, patient, inevitable.