An hour later, it became Vihaan’s turn to be tested.
“Vihaan.” His grandfather’s voice.
Precise, unmistakable, down to the particular way the old man used to deliberately draw out the second syllable of his name — a small habit Vihaan hadn’t consciously thought about in years, and had certainly never once mentioned to a single soul in this entire valley.
He stopped walking before he even fully realized his own feet had already decided to.
“Grandfather?” The word escaped him before he could properly stop himself.
“Come here, my boy.
There is a great deal I need to properly explain to you.” Aanya’s hand closed tightly around his wrist.
“Vihaan.
Look directly at me.
Ask it something specific.
Right now.” He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight, and forced the necessary question out toward the surrounding trees.
“What was the very last thing you told me, the final time we ever sat together at the temple?
Right before I returned to Delhi that summer?” Silence.
Then, far too smoothly, far too eagerly: “That I loved you deeply.
That you should always remember me.” “He never actually said that,” Vihaan said quietly, speaking more to himself now than to Aanya, something cold settling deep into his chest even as his shoulders simultaneously loosened with genuine relief.
“He never once, in his entire life, said the actual word ‘love’ out loud to me.
What he told me instead was, ‘Keep watching closely — always look further than whatever’s directly in front of you.’ That’s the real thing he actually told me, word for word.” The laughter trailing behind them faltered noticeably — just slightly, just enough to confirm the deception had genuinely failed — before resuming steadily, undisturbed, patient as ever, already searching quietly for some softer, more vulnerable place to apply pressure instead.