The Yamuna flowed as it always had.
That was what unsettled Aniruddha most.
War had emptied the land of certainty, thinned the sky of color, left even wind cautious of its own sound. Yet the river moved without hesitation—carrying moonlight, remembering banks that had changed their names a hundred times.
Aniruddha stood at its edge as dusk settled.
He had not been summoned.
He had felt her.
Radha sat where she always had—on the smooth stone worn patient by years of return. She wore no color of grief or celebration. Only quiet, gathered lightly around her like breath.
"You're late," she said, without turning.
"I wasn't sure I was allowed," Aniruddha replied.
Radha smiled faintly. "You've been standing where permission no longer applies."
He stepped closer and bowed his head—not in reverence, but recognition.
For a long moment, Radha did not speak. She watched the river, as though listening to something beneath its movement.
"They took much from you," she said finally.
Aniruddha shook his head. "They showed me what could be taken."
Radha turned then and looked at him fully.
Not at the ash.Not at the wounds.
At what remained.
"And what did you keep?" she asked.
He considered before answering.
"The ability to stop," he said."And the choice to continue."
Radha exhaled, slow and relieved.
"Then you are still yourself."
Fireflies gathered over the water, tentative at first, then braver—small lights testing whether the world would permit them again.
Radha reached up and brushed her fingers lightly across Aniruddha's forehead.
"Do you know why ash unsettles the dark?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"Because ash remembers fire," she said. "But does not crave it."
She let her hand rest there a moment longer.
"You will walk into an age that prefers speed to meaning," Radha continued. "Where devotion becomes performance, and strength becomes spectacle."
Aniruddha listened.
"When that happens," she said, "remember this river."
She gestured toward the Yamuna.
"It flows not because it fights the land," Radha said. "But because it knows where it belongs."
Something loosened in Aniruddha's chest—something he had not known he was holding since the forest.
"Will I see you again?" he asked.
Radha's smile carried sadness, but no regret.
"You already do," she replied.
A breeze moved across the water, carrying with it the faintest echo of flute-song—not played, not present.
Remembered.
Radha rose.
"You are not bound to sorrow," she said, standing before him. "Do not mistake watchfulness for penance."
She placed her palm against his chest.
"Wherever you stand," she whispered, "love must stand with you—or the line will harden into a wall."
Warmth spread—not power, not command.
Permission.
Radha stepped back.
"Go," she said simply.
Aniruddha bowed deeply.
When he straightened, she was already walking away along the riverbank, her form dissolving into moonlight and memory until it could no longer be separated from either.
The Yamuna flowed on.
Aniruddha remained a moment longer, then turned.
The age was waiting.
And this time, he would walk into it not only as a sentinel— but as one who remembered why the world was worth guarding.