Pranati's POV

By the time the sun rose over the terracotta rooftops and the veena in the prayer room hummed with morning chants, I had barely slept. 

My heart hadn’t rested. Not since the note. Not since the pendant. 

My breath still caught in my throat each time I touched it—the one I hadn’t seen in five years. 

The one that belonged to a version of me that was still naive enough to believe she was safe in this world. 

The engagement had been done. 

I had smiled. 

I had nodded. 

I had worn the diamond ring which was Siddharth’s, Shravan had slipped on my finger while the entire family clapped and threw petals. 

But inside—I was split. 

Some parts belonged to Shravan. Some to Siddharth. And the rest? The rest were being stolen silently, piece by piece, by someone hiding in the shadows. 

That evening, Nannamma had called for a small pooja. A calm before the storm, she said. Before wedding invitations and rituals flooded the house like monsoon. 

Everyone gathered at the ancestral mandapam infront of our home—cousins in bright cottons, akkas with gajras in their hair, and mavayas already fighting about the menu. 

I wore a soft lilac saree—one that clung too easily to my waist, almost like it knew I was trying to hide.
Maneesha helped me drape it, but she didn’t ask about the circles under my eyes. Maybe she knew not to.

And then—he arrived.

Shravan.

He was back. 

Walking into the mandapam like he hadn’t vanished for twenty-four hours. Like he hadn’t missed his own engagement ceremony preparations.
He looked unchanged. Calm. Confident. But there was a glint in his eyes…like he knew something I didn’t.

I didn’t meet his gaze.

But he—he searched for mine.

I turned away. Pretended to fix my pleats. To pray harder. To breathe normally.

But after the final aarti, while everyone pressed kumkum to their foreheads and laughed, a delivery boy appeared at the gate.

“Parcel for Miss Pranati Rao,” he called, holding up a small brown box.

I blinked.

A parcel? Here?

My deliveries always went to Mumbai. No one—even my closest cousins—sent me things here.
So who—

With trembling fingers, I took it, feeling all their eyes graze my back. I smiled to keep up appearances.

But inside the box—was a hand-stitched cloth journal. The kind you’d find in a vintage store. Worn, delicate, precious.

I flipped it open.

Blank pages. Crisp and untouched.

Except for one.

One page. One sketch.

Of me.

Sleeping.

On the rooftop.

Hair spilled like black silk around me. Arm curled under my cheek. Bangles slipped halfway up my forearm.

It was too accurate. Too intimate.

Drawn not from memory—but from sight.

Whoever sketched it had seen me. Watched me.

I felt the world tilt. My knees gave out just slightly. I clutched the edge of the swing, trying to steady my breath. Cold sweat trickled down my spine.

“Pranu?” Shravan’s voice was suddenly close. Too close.

He reached out, fingers brushing my arm. I slammed the journal shut before he could see. Forced my mouth into a smile.

“You okay?”

I couldn’t answer.

Not without unraveling.

So I turned and walked back into the house.

That night, I climbed to the rooftop. The one place that always felt mine.
But even here—the shadows no longer felt quiet.

The night air was heavy, the stars flickering behind thin clouds. My heart beat like a warning. I wrapped my shawl tighter around me, but it couldn’t warm the chill creeping over my skin.

Then I heard him.

Footsteps.

Siddharth.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just walked to the edge, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. The flame briefly lit his face—sharp jawline, furrowed brows, unreadable eyes.

The smoke danced between us, curling in the breeze.

Then—finally—he spoke.

“I think I know who’s doing this.”

My body went still.

My heart stuttered.

I turned slowly, voice barely a whisper. “What?”

“The stalker. The one who’s been sending you things.”

My throat closed up.

“How... how do you know about that?” I asked, eyes wide. “I never told anyone. Not even Sakshi.”

He turned to face me fully. There was something different in his eyes tonight—not cold, not soft—but certain.

“You think I wouldn’t notice the way your hands tremble when you open your diary?” he said, voice low. “The way you look over your shoulder when you think no one’s watching? You think I wouldn’t feel the way your body tenses every time the wind shifts?”

My lips parted, but no words came.

“I’ve been watching,” he continued. “Tracking. A person who’s been acting...odd. Hovering where they don’t belong. But I don’t have proof yet.”

A part of me wanted to fall into his words. To let him carry the fear for me. But another part—the deeper, more broken one—wanted to run.

To escape before this closeness tore me apart.

He flicked the cigarette away, then stepped closer.

“You’re engaged to my brother, Pranu,” he said. “But you still come here. Still stand near me like you’re looking for something… something only I can give.”

I swallowed, heart racing. “I don’t know what I want.”

His eyes didn’t flinch. “You do.”

His hand reached out—gently brushing my waist. The touch was light, but it burned through my saree like fire.

My breath hitched.

“You’ve just been too scared to admit it,” he whispered.

My eyes fluttered closed. My heart wasn’t beating anymore—it was breaking, reforming, breaking again.

His thumb grazed the skin where my blouse met the curve of my spine. His breath was warm against my temple.

I didn’t know what this was. Guilt. Desire. Madness.

But then—

The sound of footsteps.

Hard. Sharp. Too sudden.

We both turned.

Shravan stood there.

Eyes on us.

Not blinking.

Not moving.

Just watching.

And in that moment, the rooftop—my refuge—became a battlefield

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