The house felt different after Pankhuri and Adi left.
Their voices had barely faded when silence settled in, slow and deliberate, filling every corner of the living area. Kinjal stood near the centre of the room, unsure of what to do with her hands, with herself.
She moved carefully, as if the house could sense hesitation.
Her eyes traced the space around her—the wide windows, the muted colours, the furniture placed with quiet precision. Everything looked untouched, unhurried. Nothing here felt temporary, yet she knew she was.
She took a few slow steps forward, the soft sound of her feet against the floor louder than she expected. Each movement felt like an intrusion, though no one was watching.
Rudra was upstairs, in his room.
She knew that much. Pankhuri had mentioned it casually before leaving, as if it were an unimportant detail. Still, the thought made Kinjal more aware of her surroundings, more conscious of every sound she made.
She stopped near the side table by the window.
The living area was neat—almost too neat—like it wasn't meant to be disturbed. Kinjal hesitated, then glanced around once more, instinctively checking if she was alone.
She was.
The quiet pressed in again.
She folded her hands together, taking a slow breath, trying to steady the unease she couldn't explain. She wasn't doing anything wrong. She knew that.
Still, she moved as though permission was something she needed to earn.
Kinjal's steps slowed when her eyes fell on the vase.

It stood quietly on the shelf—white, simple, holding soft flowers that looked almost too calm for the room. Nothing fancy, nothing loud. Just… neat. Peaceful.
She moved closer without thinking.
"It's beautiful," she murmured under her breath, more to herself than the vase. Her fingers brushed against its smooth surface, cool and delicate, and on impulse she lifted it slightly, just to look.
For a moment, everything felt oddly still.
The moment didn't last.
The vase slipped.
It wasn't dramatic at first—just a slight shift, a soft scrape against her palm. Kinjal's breath hitched as she tried to catch it, fingers tightening too late.
Time slowed.
The vase tilted, slipped free, and fell.
Crash.
The sound shattered the quiet of the living room—ceramic breaking against the floor, sharp and final. White pieces scattered, flowers tumbling out helplessly, water spreading in thin lines across the marble.
Kinjal froze.
Her heart slammed against her ribs as she stared at the mess, eyes wide, breath uneven. The silence that followed felt louder than the crash itself.
"I—I didn't…" her voice barely formed, words stuck somewhere between panic and apology.
Her hands trembled as she took a step back, guilt rising fast, heavy and familiar.
And then—
Footsteps.
Footsteps slowed near the doorway.
Rudra stopped.
For a second, he didn't speak. His gaze moved from the shattered ceramic on the floor to the water creeping toward the edge of the rug, then finally to Kinjal—standing stiff, shoulders drawn in, as if she were bracing for something worse than anger.
"It… it slipped," she said quickly, words tumbling over each other. "I was just looking at it, I didn't mean to touch it, I'll clean it, I swear—"
She bent down instinctively, reaching toward the broken pieces.
"Don't."
The word wasn't sharp, but it was firm enough to make her pause.
Rudra stepped closer and crouched, carefully moving her hand away from a jagged shard before it could cut her. His touch was brief, cautious—like he was more worried about her skin than the mess on the floor.
"It's just a vase," he said, straightening up. Calm. Almost detached. "You'll hurt yourself."
Kinjal looked up at him, confused. The panic in her eyes hadn't settled yet. "I'm sorry," she repeated, softer this time. "I didn't mean to break it."
"I know," he replied.
There was no accusation in his voice. No irritation. Just a quiet certainty.
He called out for help to clean the floor, then stepped back, giving her space. As he did, his eyes lingered on her for a second longer than necessary—not on the mess, not on the broken flowers—but on the way her hands still trembled, how her breathing hadn't fully steadied.
Kinjal noticed.
She looked away first.
The silence returned, but it felt different now—heavier, aware.
And somewhere between shattered ceramic and spilled water, something else had cracked too.
Kinjal stood there for a moment longer, unsure if she should say something else. Her gaze flickered briefly to the broken pieces on the floor, then back to Rudra—only to drop again almost immediately.
"I… I'll go," she said quietly, as if asking permission more than informing him.
Rudra nodded once. Nothing more.
She turned and walked away, her steps quick but careful, as though the sound of her own movement made her nervous. The soft echo of her footsteps faded down the corridor before the door to her room closed gently behind her.
Only then did the room truly fall silent.
Rudra remained where he was.
The broken vase lay scattered across the floor, harmless in its stillness. It should have been insignificant—something easily replaced, easily forgotten.
The staff would clean it up soon. By evening, there would be no trace of it.
Yet his attention stayed fixed on the space she had just left behind.
The way she had frozen.
The way the apology had come too fast.
The way her hands had trembled even after he told her it was fine.
That wasn't clumsiness.
And it wasn't guilt.
Rudra straightened, his jaw tightening slightly as the realization settled in, quiet and unwelcome.
Fear like that didn't come from broken glass.
The room was quiet again.
He didn't move right away.
This chapter is quiet on purpose.
Sometimes, small moments leave the deepest impact.
Thank you for reading and staying with the story 🤍