The screen lit up with an unknown number, saved under a single, cryptic name: ???. Vihaan’s thumb hovered, his pulse a drumroll in his ears.

“Answer it, you coward,” Arv goaded, swirling whiskey in his glass.

He did.

A voice—bright, tentative, hers—spilled through the speaker. “It’s me. From the café. I… realized I never told you my name.”

He froze. The charcoal smudges on his palm suddenly felt like a map leading to an unknown land.

“Tanvi,” she said, the syllables soft as the kiss she’d left on his cheek. “I’m Tanvi.”

A strange wave washed over Vihaan. Relief, curiosity, a flicker of something dangerously close to hope. He found himself talking, a hesitant exploration of shared ground. They spoke of goals, of half-formed dreams, of the things that lay beneath the surface of their lives. Vihaan, usually so guarded, felt a crack opening in his carefully constructed walls.

Suddenly, Arv, ever the instigator, snatched the phone. “Ohh, you’re the one he’s drawing!” he boomed into the receiver.

Vihaan’s control snapped back into place. He snatched the phone back, a flush of annoyance warming his cheeks. “I’ll call you back later,” he muttered to Tanvi, and cut the connection.

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken questions. Arv, oblivious or uncaring, simply raised an eyebrow. Vihaan turned away, the unfinished sketch of Tanvi a silent accusation on the easel.

That night, Vihaan couldn’t sleep. The sketch sat there, half-formed, her eyes staring back at him from the paper—too alive, too real. He’d met her only once, at that dimly lit café where the coffee was bitter and the air smelled of rain-soaked coats. A fleeting smile, a brush of lips on his cheek as she left, and then she was gone. Until now.

He picked up the phone again, his thumb tracing the edge of the screen. He typed her number—now saved as “Tanvi”—and hesitated. What was he doing? He wasn’t the type to chase shadows. But something about her voice, the way it had trembled with a quiet courage, pulled at him. He hit call.

“Vihaan?” Her voice was softer now, laced with surprise. “I didn’t think you’d call back.”

“Neither did I,” he admitted, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “Arv’s an idiot. Ignore him.”

She laughed, a sound like wind chimes in a storm. “He’s not wrong, though. You’re drawing me?”

He glanced at the easel, the curve of her jawline smudged where he’d rested his hand. “Maybe. It’s unfinished.”

“Will you show me sometime?” she asked, and there it was again—that flicker of hope, daring him to say yes.

“Maybe,” he echoed, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself.

The Farmhouse, Dawn

Vihaan jolted awake, her name clawing its way out of his throat. “Tanvi!” The echo bounced off the farmhouse walls, unanswered.

Six years had passed, and she was no more. Vihaan took a lingering glimpse of the photo he had drawn that night, her image a ghost in graphite, and then stood up to continue his daily routine. He washed up with mechanical precision and went to his office, where Arv was already waiting for him.

“You look like hell,” Arv said, leaning back in the chair with that same infuriating grin.“Thanks,” Vihaan muttered, dropping into his seat.

Arv started, his voice sharp in the stillness. “You won’t change. Why did you not attend the concert of your wife, huh? She was filled with guilt.”

Vihaan’s breath hitched, his hands clenching. “Guilty for what?” he started, but then his voice hardened, the truth spilling out unbidden. “She said the truth, isn’t it? ‘I only killed Tanvi. If I had not been late, she could have lived now, and I wouldn’t marry her.’”

Arv blinked, caught off guard by the raw admission. For once, he didn’t have a quick retort. The words hung there, heavy and jagged, a confession Vihaan had buried deep until this moment. He could still see it—Tanvi waiting, the clock ticking past their meeting time, the call he hadn’t answered.

If he’d been there, She’d be alive. And he wouldn’t be tethered to a marriage built on the ashes of that failure.

You really believe that?” Arv finally said, his tone quieter now, almost cautious.

Vihaan didn’t answer. He turned to the sketch on the wall, her graphite eyes staring back, accusing and forgiving all at once. The silence swallowed them both.

The quiet stretched too long, and Arv shifted uncomfortably, the creak of his chair breaking the spell. “Look, man,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You can’t keep doing this."

Vihaan’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing. “What do you know about it? You weren’t there. You didn’t—” He stopped, swallowing the rest. You didn’t see her body, broken and still. Those damn bastards… I killed them. But... I can’t forgive myself for that.

Arv held up a hand, uncharacteristically serious. “I know enough. I know you’ve been punishing yourself for six years. And now you’re punishing her—your wife.”

“It’s just a marriage, why should I care?” Vihaan shouted, his voice raw and loud.

“Then why’d you marry her?” Arv shot back. “Why tie yourself to someone else if you’re not even planning to show up for it?”

Vihaan’s gaze dropped to his hands, the faint scars on his knuckles catching the light. A night he didn’t remember—punching a wall, maybe. Or a mirror. “Because I thought I could forget,” he said finally. “I thought if I built something new, I’d stop seeing her everywhere.”

Arv let out a low whistle. “That’s messed up, Vihaan. Even for you.”

“Your wife’s not stupid,” Arv added after a moment. “She knows you’re not really there.”

Vihaan’s jaw clenched. “It’s not her job to fix me.”

“Maybe not,” Arv said, rising from his seat, his voice softer now but no less pointed. “But you’re not giving her a chance to try. You’re too busy drowning in what you can’t change.”

“And what should I do?” Vihaan snapped, spinning around to face him, shoulders tense like a coiled spring. “Pretend it didn’t happen? Smile and nod like I’m whole? Like she didn’t die screaming my name?”