His Perfect Stranger

HIS PERFECT STRANGER

Subtitle: Our Slow Blooms

The scent of marigolds was suffocating. The sacred fire was a witness to a union born of a dying man's wish and a living man's despair.

Arth looked at his husband-the man he had loved from the shadows for years-and saw only a stranger. A man whose soul was buried in a grave three years ago.

"Humne phere le liye hain, Zamindar Ji..." Arth's voice was a fragile whisper, his eyes searching for a single spark of warmth in the cold marble of Vikram's face.

Vikram didn't look back. His gaze was fixed on the portrait of the woman whose place Arth could never take.

"Shaadi hui hai, Arth. Rishta nahi." Vikram's voice was like a frost that killed the first bloom of spring. "Is ghar ki dehleez ke andar tum sirf ek zimmedari ho. Meri patni ki jagah lene ki koshish bhi mat karna... kyunki vo jagah aaj bhi bhari hui hai."

Arth stood in the silence of a room that still smelled like another woman's perfume, holding a glass of water from a man who gave him everything except a reason to breathe.

He had married his dream, only to realize he was living in someone else's nightmare.

What happens when the heart you want to heal is the one that refuses to beat for anyone living?

Can a shadow ever compete with a ghost?

Dive into a tale of 19th-century angst, silent tears, and a love so patient it might just break before it blooms.