It was close to midnight. The house was silent except for the faint hum of the ceiling fan and the rhythmic tapping of Devansh's fingers on his laptop keyboard. Outside, the world was drenched in silver - the moon hung full and bright, spilling its light through the living room window. A cool breeze slipped in through the slightly open curtains, stirring the papers scattered across the coffee table.
Devansh leaned back on the couch, rubbing his tired eyes. He had been working for hours, lost in spreadsheets and emails that seemed endless. The dim light from the laptop screen cast soft shadows on his face. He glanced at the clock - 12:07 a.m. Maybe he should call it a night soon.
Just then, the bedroom door creaked open.
Tripura stepped out quietly, her movements oddly slow, almost deliberate. Her eyes were half-open, unfocused, as though she were seeing something beyond the room. She wore a pale nightdress, her hair loose and slightly messy from sleep. Devansh noticed her out of the corner of his eye but thought nothing of it at first - perhaps she had woken up thirsty.
He stood up and walked toward the dining table, pouring himself a glass of water. The sound of water filling the glass echoed faintly in the stillness. When he turned around, she was already halfway across the living room, walking toward him in small, measured steps.
"Tripura?" he said softly. "You okay?"
She didn't answer. Her face was blank, her gaze empty, but her steps didn't stop.
Devansh frowned, setting the glass down. "Do you need anything? Are you feeling cold?"
Nothing. Not even a blink.
Concerned, he took a few steps closer. "Hey, did you come for water? I kept some in the bedroom, remember?" His voice was careful, uncertain.
Still no response.
She passed by him, brushed lightly against his shoulder, and continued walking toward the far end of the living room. Her bare feet made no sound on the tiled floor. Devansh felt a strange chill run down his spine. Something about her silence, her distant expression, didn't feel right.
"Tripura," he said again, this time a little louder.
She stopped for a brief moment, turned her head slightly - but her eyes were distant, glassy. Then, without a word, she turned back and began walking toward the bedroom again.
Devansh stood frozen, watching her until she disappeared into the room. The door clicked shut behind her.
He waited for a moment, expecting her to return or call out, but the house remained silent. After a minute, he went to the bedroom door and pressed his ear against it. Nothing - only the faint sound of her breathing.
Puzzled, he returned to the couch, his mind restless. What just happened? he wondered. She hadn't looked angry or upset, just... absent.
He shut his laptop, still uneasy. Little did he know, Tripura wasn't awake at all. She had been walking in her sleep, lost somewhere between dream and reality - a secret the night kept quietly to itself.
The next morning, the first thing Tripura heard was the chirping of sparrows outside the window. Soft sunlight slipped through the half-drawn curtains, painting golden streaks across the room. She blinked, turned over, and squinted at the clock hanging on the wall.
9:30 a.m.
Her eyes widened slightly. I slept this long? She rubbed her eyes, stretching her arms above her head before sitting up. Her head felt strangely heavy, as though she'd been lost in a dream she couldn't quite remember. There was a faint chill in the air, the kind that made the morning feel lazy and slow.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, her feet meeting the cool floor. When she opened the bedroom door, the familiar scent of freshly cooked breakfast greeted her.
In the living room, the light had shifted - brighter now, filtering gently through the white curtains. On the dining table, several containers were neatly arranged, covered with steel lids to keep the food warm. She walked closer, her curiosity growing.
There was a folded note placed beside a glass of water.
Tripura picked it up and read it slowly.
I'm leaving for the office. Don't forget to have your breakfast. I've saved my contact number in the mobile. Call me anytime - I'll respond.
Below the message, his name was signed simply: - Devansh.
Her gaze drifted toward the table, where a brand-new iPhone lay beside the note. Its sleek, untouched surface reflected the morning light. She hesitated for a moment before picking it up. The phone automatically lit up, unlocking with a simple swipe.
His contact was already saved - "Devansh."
Something about his quiet thoughtfulness stirred a soft warmth in her chest. She opened WhatsApp, found his name, and typed a short message:
Tripura: Thank you.
Still holding the note, she walked toward the bedroom, her thoughts wandering. She couldn't remember when she had fallen asleep the previous night or whether she had come out into the living room. Everything after lying down felt blurred - like fragments of a half-forgotten dream.
Shaking the thought off, she headed to the bathroom to freshen up. The splash of cold water on her face cleared the last traces of sleepiness. When she returned, her gaze fell upon the wardrobe - its doors slightly ajar.
Inside, neatly folded stacks of clothes filled the shelves - elegant kurtis, casual dresses, soft pastel sarees. For a moment, she just stood there, taking it in. Everything smelled new. It was clear Devansh had gone out of his way to arrange all this.
She picked out a neat cotton dress, simple but comfortable, and slipped it on. Tying her hair back, she glanced once at her reflection in the mirror - fresh, calm, and perhaps a little surprised at how cared for she felt.
Then, with quiet steps, she walked back into the living room, sunlight following her like a blessing.
Tripura pulled out one of the dining chairs and sat down, the soft creak of the wood echoing in the still house. She carefully lifted the lids of the containers one by one. A delicate wave of warmth and spice drifted upward, wrapping the room in a comforting aroma.
Inside the hotbox lay neatly stacked puris - golden, puffed perfectly, still warm as if they had just left the pan. In another container sat a bowl of potato curry, thick and lightly spiced, the kind that instantly felt like home.
Her lips curved into a faint smile. Puris.
She hadn't eaten them in so long. They had always been her favorite - ever since childhood. But at home, her mother rarely made them; her sisters never liked puris, so they were reserved for rare occasions. Seeing them here, waiting just for her, brought a strange wave of nostalgia - a memory of being a little girl, watching the dough puff up in the pan, giggling at how each puri looked different.
Just then, her phone buzzed on the table.
She glanced at the screen. A new message from Devansh.
Devansh: I hope you like the puris.
Tripura felt her chest tighten softly, a warmth spreading through her heart. He had remembered - or maybe he had just guessed - but either way, the gesture was thoughtful, almost tender.
She smiled and typed back quickly, "Thank you."
Then she placed the phone aside and tore a small piece of puri. The moment she dipped it into the curry and took a bite, her eyes fluttered closed for a second. It was perfect - light, crisp on the outside, soft inside, the curry blending beautifully with it. The flavor felt comforting, familiar, like a whisper from home.
She took another bite, savoring the taste slowly. How did he manage to cook them so perfectly? she wondered. He didn't seem like someone who spent much time in the kitchen. Yet, these puris tasted like they were made with care - patient, deliberate care.
As she continued eating, she found herself smiling without realizing it. Maybe this marriage - awkward and new as it was - didn't have to feel so distant. Maybe there was kindness hiding quietly in the corners of their days.
Outside, the morning sunlight had grown brighter, casting a soft glow across the dining table. Tripura finished her breakfast, feeling a little lighter than when she'd woken up. For the first time since she came into this house, the silence didn't feel lonely. It felt peaceful.
Tripura sat quietly on the sofa, her hands folded in her lap. The house was still, except for the faint ticking of the wall clock. Morning light streamed through the curtains, painting soft patterns on the floor. She wasn't sure what to do next - everything around her still felt new, like she was living in someone else's home.
After a while, the doorbell rang. The sharp sound startled her a little.
She glanced around, half-expecting the robot that had greeted her the day she arrived. But it wasn't there. She hesitated for a moment, then stood up and walked toward the door.
When she opened it, a woman stood outside - perhaps in her late thirties, wearing a neatly pressed saree and a kind smile.
"Who are you?" Tripura asked softly, her tone polite but curious.
"Good morning, madam," the woman said with a respectful nod. "Devansh sir offered me a job. I'm the maid here."
Tripura blinked, a little surprised. "Oh... I see. Please come in."
The woman stepped inside, looking around with familiarity, as though she had already been told where everything was.
Tripura walked to the dining table, poured a glass of water, and handed it to her. "What's your name?" she asked.
"My name is Amala," the woman replied, accepting the glass with both hands.
"Nice to meet you, Amala," Tripura said, offering a small smile.
Amala smiled back, then placed the empty glass down and made her way toward the kitchen. Within minutes, the sound of utensils clinking and water running filled the silence of the house. Tripura watched her for a moment from the doorway.
"Let me help you," she offered gently.
Amala turned quickly, shaking her head. "No, ma'am. Devansh sir strictly told me not to make you do anything."
Tripura paused, unsure how to respond. She gave a small nod instead. "Oh... alright."
Amala continued, her voice lighter now. "I heard you both got married just yesterday. Sir told me not to disturb you too early in the morning."
Tripura's brows lifted slightly. "He did?"
Amala smiled, stirring something on the stove. "Yes, madam. You're lucky to have a husband like him. Not everyone takes such care."
Tripura said nothing. Her gaze lingered on the steam rising from the pan, her thoughts distant. Lucky, she repeated silently. The word felt heavy - not because she disagreed, but because she didn't yet know him well enough to feel that kind of certainty.
She stepped away quietly, returning to the living room. The sofa creaked slightly as she sat down. Outside, a gentle breeze rustled the curtains. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the faint honking of morning traffic.
Tripura folded her hands again and stared at the clock on the wall, her mind drifting back to the night before - to the fragments of a memory she still couldn't quite place.
By evening, the house was filled with the aroma of fresh food. Amala finished setting the table and wiped her hands on her saree's pallu.
"I'll take your leave, madam," she said, her voice gentle.
Tripura smiled faintly. "Thank you for today, Amala."
Amala nodded, gave a polite smile, and stepped out into the cool night air. The clock on the wall read 8:22 p.m.
Tripura had just stepped out of the shower, her hair damp and tied loosely behind her. The soft cotton nightdress brushed against her ankles as she sat down on the sofa, feeling a strange stillness fill the space around her. The whole day had passed quietly - she hadn't done much, hadn't spoken much either. The silence of the house had begun to feel like a living thing.
Then came the sound of the doorbell.
She stood up quickly, heart thudding for reasons she couldn't explain. When she opened the door, he was there - Devansh.
He looked calm, collected, his expression unreadable as always. Without a word, he stepped inside, placed his laptop bag on the couch, and disappeared into the bedroom. She stood there for a moment, uncertain whether to follow or speak, but she didn't.
A few minutes later, he came out freshly showered, wearing a dark grey T-shirt and casual pants. The faint scent of soap trailed behind him as he sat down at the dining table. Tripura walked over quietly and took the seat opposite him.
Devansh began serving food for both of them - his movements steady, practiced, almost mechanical. Tripura watched him in silence, her fingers nervously tracing the edge of her plate.
When she finally gathered the courage to speak, her voice was soft. "Devansh-"
He didn't look up. "Do you have anything to say?" he asked, his tone calm, almost too calm.
Tripura swallowed, then whispered, "Thank you."
He glanced up briefly, nodded once, and continued eating.
They finished their dinner in silence. The clinking of spoons and the low hum of the ceiling fan were the only sounds that filled the space. When the meal was done, Devansh stood, collected both plates, and walked toward the kitchen.
Tripura followed him quietly. "Let me wash them," she said.
He looked over his shoulder. "No need. Rest early."
His voice carried no harshness - only quiet firmness.
She stopped at the kitchen doorway, watching as he rinsed the plates. There was something oddly comforting in the sight - a man who didn't speak much, but whose silence seemed to hold unspoken care.
When he was done, he turned off the light and walked toward the bedroom. Tripura waited in the living room, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her dupatta.
"Devansh," she called softly.
He stopped and turned. "Hmm?"
She hesitated. "I can take care of the household chores," she said.
His expression softened slightly - barely visible, but enough. "I know that you can," he said quietly. Then, after a pause, he added, "But I don't want to make things hard for my Eclipse."
Tripura blinked. "Eclipse?" she repeated under her breath, but he was already walking away.
The bedroom door closed softly behind him.
Tripura stood frozen in the dim light of the living room, the echo of that one word lingering in her mind. Eclipse.
What did he mean by that? Why did he call her that?
Outside, the moonlight slipped through the curtains, faintly illuminating the note he had left her that morning. The ink of his handwriting caught the silver light, almost glowing - quiet, mysterious, and full of something unspoken.