The Promised Queen

𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓉𝑒𝑒𝓃

HRUDAY

The sterile scent of the hospital never failed to unsettle me. No matter how many times I walked through its stark white halls, I couldn't shake the discomfort. Maybe it was the coldness, the sense of finality hanging in the air. Or maybe it was the sight of my father—once the powerful King of Suryagarh—reduced to a frail shadow of his former self, tethered to machines and the constant hum of medical devices.

I pushed open the door to his private room, bracing myself for the sight that always hit harder than I wanted to admit. My father, King Devraj Singh Tanwar, lay propped up on his bed, eyes closed, his face paler than I remembered. His once strong frame seemed small under the layers of blankets, a stark contrast to the man I grew up admiring.

But as I stepped inside, I noticed something different. He wasn't just lying there, lost in the void of his own thoughts. He was smiling. His entire face had lit up, the kind of smile I hadn't seen in years.

And there, sitting beside him, was Ridhima.

She sat in a chair, her legs crossed, speaking animatedly while my father listened, an amused gleam in his eyes. I couldn't hear what she was saying, but it was clear from the way she gestured with her hands and the way my father chuckled softly that her "mindless chatter," as I often called it, had somehow worked magic on him.

I stood there for a moment, watching them. My father looked... better. More alive, more engaged, like some part of him had been brought back from the brink. The heavy weight of grief, the loss of my mother, had left him broken, bedridden. He hadn't smiled like that in months.

And yet here was Ridhima, sitting there with her usual spark, talking about God-knows-what, and lifting his spirits.

When she noticed me, her chatter halted, and her eyes flicked toward the door. "Oh, look who's here," she said with a playful grin. "Your son's finally shown up, Dev Uncle."

"Baba-Sa," I greeted with a tired sigh, stepping into the room.

My father's smile didn't fade. Instead, it grew. "Hruday," he said, his voice weak but warm. "You're late."

I crossed the room, standing at the foot of his bed, feeling strangely out of place in my own father's presence. "I didn't realize you had such entertaining company."

Ridhima laughed, standing up from her chair. "Oh, don't worry. I was just telling him how you enjoyed the bus ride to work, and how you're allergic to smiling." She winked at me, her eyes dancing with mischief.

"Is that so?" I muttered, not sure whether to be amused or annoyed. But I couldn't deny it—there was something about seeing my father like this, seeing him... better, that made it hard to stay irritated.

"She's been visiting me often," my father said, his gaze shifting to Ridhima with a kind of fondness I hadn't seen him give anyone in years. "Her stories keep me entertained, and her... complaints about you are a nice change from the silence around here."

I shot a glance at Ridhima, raising an eyebrow. "You've been visiting him?"

She shrugged, looking far too innocent. "Of course. Can't leave Dev Uncle all alone in this boring hospital, can I?"

A strange warmth settled in my chest. She had been coming here, day after day, to visit my father. And it wasn't just a token visit—it was clear from the way they interacted, from the light in my father's eyes, that she'd been making a real difference.

I didn't know what to say. Part of me was surprised, the other part... grateful. Though I'd never admit it.

"Ridhima's been good company," my father continued, his voice softer now as he looked back at me. "It gives me something to look forward to. Something to keep me going."