"Some dreams are memories. Some are warnings. And some... are destiny whispering before it dares to speak out loud."
The garden stretched endlessly beneath a soft golden sky.
Hills rolled gently in the distance, wrapped in a thin veil of morning mist. A stone house stood at the edge of it all, ivy climbing lazily up its walls. Smoke curled from its chimney, carrying the faint scent of firewood and rain.
A wooden swing hung from the branch of an old banyan tree.
And on it...
A little boy.
Messy curls bounced with every push. Bright grey eyes crinkled shut with laughter. Small legs kicked at the sky as though trying to touch the clouds.
"Higher!" the boy shouted.
"Push me higher!"
A woman stood behind the swing.
Her hands rested lightly against the boy's back. Her laughter rang out, warm and unguarded, the kind that belonged only to the happiest version of a person.
Tara.
Her hair danced with the breeze. Sunlight caught the edges of her dupatta, and for a moment she looked exactly the way she had all those years ago.
Rudra stood a few feet away.
He didn't remember walking there. He didn't remember choosing to stay. He only knew that his chest no longer felt heavy the way it always did.
It felt... light.
Impossibly light.
"Papa, look!"
The boy's voice rang out again.
Papa.
The word settled somewhere deep inside Rudra's chest. Instead of confusion, there was only warmth, as though he had heard it a thousand times before.
As though it belonged to him.
He walked forward.
The grass was cool beneath his feet. He reached the swing and placed his hand over the boy's small one.
The boy grinned up at him with a gap-toothed smile.
"Higher, Papa!"
Rudra pushed.
The swing rose.
Tara's laughter rose with it.
And somewhere in that golden light... in that quiet house on the hill... in that garden scented with jasmine and childhood...
Rudra felt something he hadn't felt in six years.
Peace.
His eyes snapped open.
For a moment, Rudra simply lay there staring at the ceiling of his bedroom.
The air conditioner hummed softly. Distant city traffic murmured beyond the thick glass windows. His silk sheets were tangled around his legs.
None of it was the garden.
None of it was the swing.
His heartbeat hadn't slowed.
He sat up slowly, pressing the heel of his palm against his eyes.
"What..."
His voice came out rough.
Unfamiliar even to himself.
He had dreamed of Tara before.
Countless times.
For six years, her face had visited him in the quiet hours of the night—sometimes laughing, sometimes crying, sometimes simply walking away from him in the rain, the way she had that last day.
But never like this.
Never a garden.
Never a house on a hill.
And never...
A child calling him Papa.
Rudra sat at the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees as he stared at nothing in particular.
"It's just a dream," he muttered.
His own voice didn't sound convinced.
He reached for the glass of water on his nightstand and drank slowly, as though it could wash away the strange tightness in his throat.
Why now?
Why this?
Six years of dreaming about the woman he had lost.
And in one night, his mind had decided to add a swing, a house, hills he had never visited and a little boy with grey eyes and messy curls who called him—
He stopped the thought before it could finish.
Because somewhere in the back of his mind, a small uninvited voice had already completed the sentence for him.
Messy curls.
Grey eyes.
A boy who had accused him of following him just yesterday.
A boy who had called him a friend over a stick of cotton candy.
Rudra shook his head sharply, as if the motion alone could dislodge the thought.
"Ridiculous."
He stood, walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside.
Mumbai was waking up beneath him. Streetlights blinked off one by one. The horizon had begun turning a pale shade of orange.
He exhaled.
It's a coincidence.
The boy has nothing to do with this.
It's just residual thought from yesterday.
He repeated those words several times.
He didn't believe them even once.
By the time Rudra reached the private gym inside Malhotra Mansion, the sky outside had turned a deeper gold.
He hadn't bothered waking his driver.
He hadn't checked his phone.
He hadn't even glanced at the neatly arranged folder containing the day's schedule sitting untouched on his desk.
He had simply changed, walked downstairs and begun.
The first set of reps came easily.
The second was harder.
By the fifth set, his muscles burned.
His mind refused to quiet down.
A garden.
A swing.
Papa.
He slammed the barbell onto the rack harder than necessary.
The clang echoed through the empty gym.
He moved to the punching bag.
Left.
Right.
Left again.
Each strike landed with more force than the last. His knuckles ached beneath the wraps. Sweat slid down his temples. His breathing grew ragged.
Why does it feel real?
Why did it feel like something I've lost instead of something I've imagined?
Another strike.
Why did being called Papa feel... right?
He stopped abruptly, breathing hard, his forehead resting against the bag as it swayed gently on its chain.
Six years.
Six years of forcing himself to move forward.
Six years of burying a memory so deeply that even his family had stopped mentioning her name in front of him.
Six years of building an empire so vast that the world called him unstoppable, untouchable and unshakeable.
And all it had taken was a five-year-old and a stick of cotton candy to unravel him in a single afternoon.
"Sahab?"
Rudra straightened immediately.
His trainer stood a few feet away, uncertainty written across his face.
"You've been at it for over an hour," the man said carefully. "Should I get you some water?"
Rudra glanced at the clock.
He blinked.
An hour.
He hadn't even realised it.
"No," he said, his voice steadier now. "I'm done."
As he unwrapped the bandages from his hands, revealing knuckles that were red and slightly raw, he caught his reflection in the mirrored wall.
Dishevelled hair.
Tired eyes.
A jaw clenched too tightly.
He barely recognised the man staring back.
Get a hold of yourself, Rudra.
It's just a dream.
It means nothing.
He repeated the words like a mantra as he walked out of the gym.
He almost believed them.
Almost.
Because as he climbed the stairs towards his room, one thought refused to leave.
It followed him like a shadow.
"Kal school mein milna. I will be waiting."
A promise made to a five-year-old.
A promise he had no logical reason to keep.
And yet...
By the time he stepped into the shower, he had already made up his mind.
He would go.
Tara's POV
"Ivan!"
I called out for what felt like the tenth time that morning.
"Two minutes, Mumma!"
His muffled voice echoed from behind the bathroom door.
I crossed my arms, leaning against the kitchen doorway.
"That's what you said five minutes ago."
"This time I mean it!"
I raised an eyebrow at the door even though he couldn't see it.
A few seconds later, the door swung open, and out marched my son half in his school uniform, with his shirt buttons mismatched, socks in his hand instead of on his feet, and his tie draped around his neck like a scarf rather than an actual tie.
I pressed my lips together to stop myself from laughing.
"Ready!" he declared proudly.
"Are you?"
He looked down at himself.
He blinked.
"...Almost ready."
I walked over and crouched to fix his buttons.
"You do this every single morning."
"Do what?"
"Get dressed like a tornado passed through your room."
He gasped in mock offence.
"I get dressed very fast, Mumma. Fast is not the same as messy."
"Is that so?"
"Yes." He nodded seriously. "Fast people don't have time to be neat."
I couldn't hold back my laugh this time.
"Where do you even come up with these things?"
"I'm smart," he reminded me exactly as he always did.
"The smartest in your class. Yes, I remember."
I finished fixing his buttons and knelt to put his socks on properly while he balanced with one hand on my shoulder.
"Mumma..."
"Hmm?"
"Today is a special day."
I looked up.
"Special how?"
He puffed out his chest.
"Teacher said we all have to make something special. For..."
He paused, and something in his expression flickered for just a second.
"...for someone."
I tilted my head.
"For who?"
"I'll tell you later," he said quickly, looking away.
I studied him for a moment.
Something about the way his shoulders had dropped slightly and the way his voice had softened made my heart tighten.
Before I could ask anything else, he suddenly brightened and grabbed his schoolbag from the chair.
"Mumma, guess what?"
The sudden change of subject didn't escape me, but I let it go.
For now.
"What?"
"Mr Handsome said he'll come today."
My hands paused on his shoelaces.
"Mr Handsome again?"
"Yes!" His eyes lit up instantly, all traces of hesitation gone. "He said kal school mein milna. That means today, Mumma. Today is kal from yesterday."
I sighed, trying not to smile at his logic.
"I know what kal means, Ivan."
"So he'll come!"
"You don't know that."
"I do."
He said it with such certainty that I almost believed him myself.
"Friends keep promises."
Something about the confidence in his voice made my chest tighten just a little.
Friends keep promises.
If only the world worked the way five-year-olds believed it did.
I finished tying his shoelaces and stood, smoothing down his shirt.
"Come on. Or you'll be late, and then your very dangerous teacher will make you stand outside."
Ivan gasped dramatically, slinging his bag over one shoulder.
"Not the corner, Mumma. Anything but the corner."
I laughed as I picked up my keys.
"Then walk faster, Detective Ivan."
"Yes, Captain Mumma!"
As we walked down the narrow chawl staircase, his hand slipped naturally into mine.
For a few minutes, the world felt uncomplicated.
Simple.
Just a mother and her son walking towards another ordinary day.
Neither of them knowing...
How extraordinary it was about to become.
The black Mercedes rolled to a slow stop outside the iron gates of Starlight Academy.
Rudra remained seated for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the familiar cream-coloured walls, the neatly trimmed hedges and the faint sound of children's laughter drifting through the campus.
He hadn't told Aarav he was coming.
He hadn't told his assistant to clear his schedule, though he quietly had an hour earlier.
He hadn't told anyone because he didn't fully understand it himself.
What am I even doing here?
The question had followed him throughout the drive.
He had a board meeting in ninety minutes.
A conference call with Singapore investors after that.
A stack of contracts waiting for his signature before noon.
And yet...
Here he was.
Standing outside a primary school.
Because a five-year-old had asked him to.
The driver opened the door.
Rudra stepped out, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve out of habit as his sharp eyes scanned the campus.
This is absurd.
I run one of the largest business empires in the country.
And I'm standing here like—
His thoughts stopped.
Near the small garden by the entrance sat a familiar figure.
Messy curls.
Small shoulders slumped.
Sitting alone on a bench with his gaze fixed on his shoes.
None of his usual dramatic energy was there.
Rudra frowned.
Something was wrong.
He didn't remember deciding to walk forward.
His feet simply moved.
They carried him through the gates and past a surprised security guard who recognised him from the Foundation's visit and quickly straightened to greet him.
Rudra barely acknowledged him.
His attention remained fixed on the little boy sitting alone.
As he approached, Ivan looked up.
For a brief moment, surprise crossed his face.
Then it faded.
"...Hi," Ivan said quietly.
No dramatic greeting.
No accusing finger.
Just...
Hi.
Rudra had known the boy for less than two days.
Even so, he could tell.
Something was very wrong.
He lowered himself onto the bench beside him, ignoring the way his tailored trousers protested against the rough wood.
"You don't look happy to see me."
He paused.
"I thought I was your friend."
Ivan shrugged.
Actually shrugged.
No five-year-old should know how to express that much sadness with such a small gesture.
"You are," Ivan mumbled.
"I'm just... busy being sad."
Despite himself, Rudra almost smiled.
"Can I ask why?"
Ivan hesitated.
Then he slowly reached into his schoolbag and pulled out a blank sheet of white chart paper, slightly crumpled around the edges.
"Teacher said..."
His voice had become very small.
"Everyone has to make something special today."
He paused.
"...for their Papa."
The word lingered between them.
Rudra became very still.
"...Oh."
"Everyone in my class is making something," Ivan continued, staring at the blank sheet.
"Aryan is making a card. Meher is drawing her Papa's car. Dhruv said his Papa is going to hang his in the office."
His small fingers tightened around the paper.
"But I..."
His voice faded away.
Rudra's chest tightened.
"I don't know what my Papa looks like," Ivan whispered at last.
"Mumma has photos, but she keeps them hidden. She thinks I don't know, but I've seen the box under her bed."
He lowered his eyes.
"I don't even know if he'd like what I make."
For a long moment, Rudra couldn't find any words.
He negotiated multi-crore deals.
He silenced boardrooms with a single sentence.
He had faced international investors without the slightest hesitation.
But a five-year-old's quiet heartbreak...
He had no strategy for that.
Slowly, he rested a hand on Ivan's small shoulder.
"Hey."
His voice was softer than usual.
"Look at me."
Ivan lifted his head.
"You don't have to make something for someone you've never met."
He spoke carefully.
"But you do know someone who deserves something special."
Ivan blinked.
"Who?"
Rudra tilted his head.
"Who wakes you up every morning?"
"Who fixes your socks when you wear them wrong?"
"Who tells you stories before you sleep?"
Understanding slowly spread across Ivan's face.
"...Mumma."
"Exactly."
"But teacher said Papa..."
"Your teacher doesn't know your story," Rudra said gently.
"You do."
"And there's nothing wrong with making something for the person who has truly earned it."
Ivan looked at him for several long seconds.
Then a small smile slowly appeared.
"For Mumma?"
"For Mumma."
Ivan sat up straighter, hugging the chart paper against his chest.
"She'll love it."
"She will."
Suddenly, Ivan jumped to his feet.
His sadness disappeared as quickly as it had come.
The way only a child could manage.
"Come on!"
He grabbed Rudra's hand so naturally that Rudra didn't even register it until a few moments later.
"Where are we going?"
"The activity room!" Ivan announced, already pulling him along.
"You have to help me!"
"I have a board meeting—"
"You have me," Ivan interrupted without the slightest doubt.
Somehow...
That was enough.
Rudra followed.
The activity room smelled of glue, glitter and crayons.
Colourful paper lay scattered across the low tables, and shelves along the walls held stacks of chart paper, ribbons, sketch pens and jars filled with every craft supply imaginable.
A young teacher glanced up in surprise as Ivan dragged Rudra inside.
"Mr Malhotra?"
"He's helping me," Ivan announced before Rudra could say a word. "He's very good at important things."
The teacher, clearly recognising him from the Foundation's visit, simply smiled and nodded, deciding not to question it further.
Ivan pulled out a stool for Rudra and one for himself, then spread the chart paper across the table with great seriousness.
"Okay," he said, tapping his chin. "What should we make?"
"You're asking me?"
"You're my friend. Friends help."
Rudra sighed, though there was no real irritation in it.
"Fine. What does your Mumma like?"
Ivan's face lit up instantly.
"Flowers! And the colour yellow. And..." He gasped. "Stars! She always looks at the stars at night."
"Then let's make that."
For the next twenty minutes, chaos reigned.
Ivan grabbed a jar of glitter with far more enthusiasm than precision. Within seconds, gold and silver sparkles rained across the table and all over Rudra's very expensive charcoal-grey suit.
"Ivan—"
"Oops!"
Rudra brushed the glitter off his sleeve, only for Ivan to giggle and fling another handful, this time landing squarely on Rudra's shoulder.
"You did that on purpose."
"Maybe."
Rudra narrowed his eyes.
Then, without warning, he scooped up a small pinch of glitter and flicked it straight into Ivan's messy curls.
Ivan gasped, his mouth falling open in scandalised delight.
"You attacked me!"
"You attacked first."
"This means war!"
What followed could only be described as an all-out glitter battle. Ivan stood on his stool for better aim while Rudra dodged with surprising reflexes for a man who spent most of his days in board meetings. The teacher watched from the doorway, biting back laughter as she quietly decided not to interfere.
By the time they finally settled down, both of them were covered from head to toe in gold and silver specks, breathless from laughing.
Rudra couldn't remember the last time he had laughed this much.
Actually...
He could.
It had been exactly like this once.
Years ago.
With someone else entirely.
He pushed the thought away and turned his attention back to the paper in front of them.
Slowly and carefully, between bursts of laughter and Ivan's constant instructions, a card began to take shape.
"More yellow, Mr Handsome."
"No, bigger stars."
"The flower needs more petals. That's not enough petals."
A golden sun filled one corner.
A cluster of yellow flowers stretched along the bottom.
A messy but adorable scattering of stars decorated the top, some slightly crooked and one shaped suspiciously like a triangle.
And in the centre, written in Ivan's careful, wobbly handwriting:
To the best Mumma in the whole world,
Thank you for loving me every day.
I love you more than dinosaurs, chocolate and cartoons.
Love,
Ivan ❤️
Rudra stared at the card longer than necessary.
Something about it, the innocence, the honesty and the simple, uncomplicated love poured into a five-year-old's crooked handwriting, settled somewhere deep inside his chest.
"She's going to cry," Rudra said quietly.
Ivan looked alarmed.
"Cry? I don't want her to cry!"
"Happy tears," Rudra clarified. "Trust me."
Ivan thought about it for a moment before nodding solemnly, as though accepting a great truth.
"Happy tears are confusing," he mumbled, echoing words that clearly belonged to his mother.
Rudra smiled faintly, though something about that sentence tugged at a memory he couldn't quite place.
To be continued...
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