𝐇𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐫, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐬.
Love is hope for the hopeless and sin for the saint. Love makes you do things you never intended to do, but it's distinct when you hold hands and promise to behold each oth...
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I sat on the cold floor of my cell, staring at the empty wall across from me. On the sixth day after I sent the sketch, I bent down and made the first tally mark. With a broken shard of tile in my hand, I scratched a thin line into the rough cement beside my cot. A small, unassuming mark-a reminder of her absence.
Six days, and still, nothing.
I had waited. Days turned into weeks. And yet, nothing.
"Maybe she didn't like it. Maybe... she still hates me." The thought cut deeper than any punishment this jail could inflict. I stood back, staring at the wall, shaking my head at myself. "Pathetic," I muttered. "She owes you nothing. Why should I keep hoping she'll visit me?"
Heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor as the guards approached my cell. Their boots thudded against the concrete, stopping just outside my door. With a sharp jingle, one of them unlocked the cell and stepped inside.
"Field cleaning duty," one of them announced, his voice carrying the usual authority. He didn't wait for me to respond, standing there with a cold, unwavering gaze.
My body was stiff from the hard cot. Slowly, I pushed myself up, my movements sluggish and heavy. I glanced at the guards, their expressions unreadable, then stood, resigned to the inevitable. I had learned long ago that resistance was pointless in this place.
They handcuffed my wrists and shackled my legs before covering my face with a hood. Without a word, I followed them down the hallway. The routine was the same-every day, every hour-work to survive, wait to die.
When they finally brought me out to the field, they removed the hood but left my hands cuffed.
"Clean the entire field properly. If you miss a single spot, you'll redo the whole thing by midnight," one of the guards barked, handing me a broom.
I took the broom and started cleaning. There were no other prisoners here-there never were. The authorities always isolated me from the others. It was for the best. I didn't have to mingle with anyone, least of all Chirag.
As I swept the dirt, an old pandit from the mandir inside the prison approached me with a kind smile. He held out some prasad and offered to me.
I hesitated.
Then, letting go of the broom, I wiped my gloved hands on my chest and slowly moved my prosthetic right hand forward to accept the offering.
"You do good work here," the pandit said warmly. Then, with a curious tilt of his head, he added, "But I wonder why there are no flowers today?"
"Flowers?" I asked, pausing my work.
"Yes, the little girl didn't come today. She always brings white flowers for the mandir," he explained.
