Unwritten Chords

Chapter 21: she wished me luck?

Adrian's POV

As I stepped inside Anya's house, the quiet enveloped us. The dimly lit living room was cozy, neat-a space that felt familiar but restrained. Anya flicked on the lights, and the room brightened, revealing clean lines, subtle decor, and the faint scent of something warm.

"Guess she's not here," Anya said, her voice soft but with a shrug of nonchalance as she dropped her bag onto the sofa with a dull thud. Her tone was casual, like this was just another part of her routine, but there was a faint edge beneath it, something restless.

I followed her, my steps slow and deliberate. There was something about her movements-graceful, effortless yet carrying an underlying tension.

Her dark hair fell over her shoulders, the strands catching the light softly as she moved. She turned to face me, her expression guarded, but the way her eyes flicked up to meet mine felt weighty, like a spark igniting a quiet awareness. For a moment, we were alone in that stillness, and it felt... different.

She broke the silence first, her voice steady but neutral, though I could hear the faint flutter of something beneath her words. "The sitar's upstairs."

I inclined my head slightly. "Lead the way," I said, my tone steady, keeping whatever thoughts I had to myself. But even as we moved through the house, my gaze lingered on her-on the way she carried herself, her posture, the slight furrow in her brow that betrayed her composure.

There was something quietly compelling about her, something untouchable yet deeply intriguing. Her house, though meticulously arranged, seemed to reflect her subtle layers-modern, yet with hints of something deeply rooted beneath the surface.

As we moved through the house, subtle details began to catch my attention-

The living room was clean and simple, but there was a small, quiet corner near the kitchen entrance where a small temple sat. It housed a few delicate idols, each crafted with care, surrounded by the faint glow of a small oil lamp. A gentle fragrance of sandalwood lingered softly in the air, adding a calming touch to the otherwise understated space.

Other small, rustic touches dotted the house-a worn brass vase on the dining table, a handwoven throw draped over the arm of the couch, and an old wooden box in the corner that seemed to carry more stories than its surface suggested. There was a quiet elegance to it all, nothing flashy, but filled with a sense of history and depth.

Anya's movements were composed, but there was something understated about the way she carried herself-calm on the surface, yet with a quiet intensity just beneath. Her tone was measured, but her eyes would flicker slightly whenever they met mine, as if betraying something she wasn't ready to fully show.

We reached the stairs, and I followed without a word, the stillness between us growing heavier. It wasn't about what was said-her house spoke for itself. The small details hinted at a life that was more complex than it seemed on the surface, a place where tradition and modernity quietly intertwined.

"That's my room," she said pushing open the door. "Don't judge."

It. Was. A. Mess.

The door slammed shut right on my face before I could react.

Confused? Taken aback? Annoyed?

Nah. Annoyed wasn't the right word. It was... entertaining.

A beat later, the door creaked open again, and there she was-half-apologetic, half-defiant, her face flushed with something that looked like embarrassment. "Welcome," she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Sorry about the mess."