Page 95 of Scars and Crowns

The corridors stretch out in soft pools of golden light from the wall sconces, shadows gathering in the corners. Somewhere far away I hear the measured footsteps of a night guard making his rounds before silence settles over everything again.

My heart beats a little faster with every step toward Yuvaan's study. I rehearse sentences. Discard them. Try again.

What did you mean . . . ?

No.

Can we talk . . . ?

Too formal.

Yuvaan . . .

Even that feels impossibly difficult. By the time I reach the study door, I've managed to convince myself of absolutely nothing. I knock anyway. No answer. After waiting another moment, I push the door open. The room is empty.

Only the desk lamp is on, casting a warm pool of light across neatly stacked files and papers arranged with the same impossible precision he seems to bring to everything in life. "I'll just wait," I murmur to myself. Anything is better than losing my nerve and walking back.

I wander slowly around the room instead, my fingers trailing absentmindedly along the spines of books. I've been in this study countless times over the years. Strange how little I've ever really looked. There are framed photographs on one shelf. Old trophies. Books that have clearly been read more than once.

My eyes drift lower . . . and stop at the small wooden box that sits tucked behind a stack of ledgers. Plain. Simple. Almost hidden.

Recognition hits me instantly.

My breath catches. I know that box. I bought it during my first summer internship. I remember standing at a tiny handicraft stall for nearly twenty minutes because I couldn't decide whether I could really afford it. Half of my first salary disappeared that afternoon. I never regretted it.

I'd wrapped it carefully and mailed it to him without a letter because eighteen-year-old me had been far too embarrassed to write down everything she wanted to say. I don't remember deciding to pick it up. One moment it's sitting safely on the shelf. The next it's resting in my lap. My fingers hesitate only briefly before lifting the lid. The air leaves my lungs. A pressed daisy. Fragile now. Its petals browned with time, carefully preserved between sheets of wax paper. Underneath it lies a stack of birthday cards. My handwriting. Crooked. Messy. Some of the words misspelled so spectacularly that I almost laugh through the sudden sting behind my eyes.

I couldn't have been older than nine or ten.

Beneath those . . . Candy wrappers. Actual candy wrappers. I stare at them in disbelief. The cheap milk toffees I'd used to buy from the market whenever I managed to save enough coins.

I'd always broken one in half before eating it. One piece for me. One for him.

He kept . . . the wrappers. My throat tightens. There's more. A tiny clay elephant. One ear larger than the other. Its trunk crooked. I pick it up carefully. Memory rushes back so suddenly I can almost smell wet clay. I'd made this during an art workshop. Only because he'd begged me to come with him after insisting pottery looked "easy."

It wasn't. Mine looked terrible. I'd laughed so hard at it that I'd handed it to him as a joke. "You keep it."

"I don't want this disaster." Apparently . . . He had. All these years.

I sit there on the study floor with the open box resting in my lap and something inside me quietly gives way. Not because of expensive gifts. Not because of grand gestures. Because of this. Because he'd kept every tiny, forgettable thing I'd ever handed him without a second thought. The sort of things no sensible person would ever think to preserve.

Not displayed. Not shown off. Just . . . protected. Tucked safely inside a wooden box. As though ordinary pieces of my life had become precious simply because they'd once belonged to me.

I don't hear the study door open. Only the soft click as it closes again.

"Anamika." His voice makes me look up. He's standing just inside the doorway. His gaze drops immediately to the box in my lap. For the briefest second . . . His expression changes. Not panic. Not annoyance. Something quieter. Like a man who's just realised someone has found the most private corner of his heart.

"You kept all this . . . " The words barely make it out. I look back down at the contents. "The birthday cards . . . " I pick one up carefully. "The clay elephant . . . " Then another. "The wrappers . . . " A watery laugh escapes me. "You actually kept candy wrappers." I shake my head slowly, unable to understand it. "Why?"

He doesn't answer immediately. Instead he walks over and quietly lowers himself onto the floor opposite me. Close enough that our knees almost touch. Neither of us speaks. The open box sits between us. He looks at it for a long moment before finally lifting his eyes to mine.

"Because they were yours." His voice is barely above a whisper. "You gave them to me without thinking." A faint smile touches his face. "You probably forgot half of them before the day ended."

His fingers brush lightly over one of the old birthday cards. "I couldn't." He looks down again. "I never wanted to throw away anything that came from you." His voice grows softer. "The little things especially." A quiet breath leaves him."You never knew you were giving me something important."

"You were just . . . being you." He smiles sadly. "But every one of those things reminded me that you were here." His eyes meet mine again. "I think . . . " He pauses. Searching. "I just wanted proof."

"Proof that those years actually happened."