Aarav Khanna had been born into a kingdom of glass towers and golden promises. His family’s name — Khanna — whispered through the halls of power like a sacred song. Money had built his world: sleek black cars with tinted windows, endless summers in Capri, tailored suits that felt like armor against a life he barely recognized anymore.

  At twenty-three, Aarav should have been invincible.

  Instead, he felt like a ghost drifting through his own life.

  Today, the rain was relentless, smearing the London skyline into a watercolor of gray and silver. Meetings, calls, obligations — he abandoned them all, letting instinct pull him through the busy streets until he found himself at the steps of the British Museum. He hadn’t been here in years. He didn’t even know why he entered — only that he needed to be somewhere that didn’t expect anything from him.

  Inside, the museum was quiet, sacred in a way that luxury could never be.

  Leena Rahman moved through the same museum, her steps soft, her spirit calm. She clutched a worn leather sketchbook to her chest, her fingers cold from the damp air outside.

  To Leena, the museum was more than just a collection of artifacts — it was a map of human longing, of prayers carved into stone and stitched into silk centuries ago. She loved the Islamic Art gallery most — the way the calligraphy flowed like water, the mosaics blooming with endless patterns, each piece an offering to something greater than the self.

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  Wrapped in her soft navy-blue hijab, Leena looked almost like a painting herself — framed by marble archways and golden light.

  She did not notice him.

  Not yet.

  Aarav wandered aimlessly at first, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. His mind was loud, full of unfinished conversations and heavy expectations. But then, somewhere between a display of ancient manuscripts and a tiled Persian fountain, he felt it — a pull, subtle and strange, like the prickle of a forgotten dream.

  Across the room, he caught a glimpse of her.

  Not her face — just the silhouette: delicate, composed, utterly still.

  Something about the way she stood, absorbed in the world in front of her, caught him off guard.

  She was not posing for anyone. She was not aware of being watched.

  She simply was.

  Aarav slowed his steps without meaning to.

  He did not approach.

  He didn’t even dare to stare.

  He only let the moment wash over him — this tiny, inexplicable shift inside him, like a star quietly blinking into existence far across the sky.

  Leena, unaware of the stranger’s silent gaze, turned a page in her sketchbook, her pencil moving with quiet purpose.

  Somewhere in her heart, a whisper stirred — the kind you don't notice until much later, when it’s already part of you.

  They did not meet.

  They did not speak.

  They did not even know each other’s names.

  But some meetings begin before the first word is ever spoken — in the hush of an unseen glance, in the breath held between two beating hearts.

  And on that rainy afternoon, under a gray London sky, something invisible had already begun.

  Something that would change everything.

  (To be continued...)