The air in the cottage was thick with tension, the kind that clung to skin like a damp cloak and made every breath feel heavy.
Riya stood by the hearth, her slender fingers wrapped around a wooden spoon as she stirred a bubbling cauldron of potion.
The firelight danced across her features, highlighting the sharp angles of her face and the determined set of her jaw.
Her blonde hair, usually pulled back in a tight braid, had come loose, tendrils
framing her face like a halo of gold.
Despite her widow's weeds, her hourglass figure was impossible to ignore,
the curves of her body a stark contrast to the severity of her expression.
Yash leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze fixed on the floor.
At twenty, he was no longer the boy Riya had taken in after his mother's death, but he still carried the weight of his grief like a second skin.
His shyness had only deepened in the years since, making him a shadow in his own home.
The silence between them was a living thing, a monster that grew with every passing moment.
"You could at least try to clean up after yourself," Riya said, her voice tight as she turned from the cauldron.
Her eyes narrowed as she took in the mess Yash had left in the kitchen—a half-eaten loaf of bread, a mug of ale spilled on the table, and a trail of crumbs leading to the door.
"This isn't an inn, Yash.
It's our home."
Yash flinched at the sharpness in her tone, but he didn't look up. "I'm sorry," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I'll clean it up." Riya sighed, the sound heavy with frustration.
"You say that every time, but you never do. Do you think I have
nothing better to do than pick up after you?"
She set the spoon aside and wiped her hands on her apron, her
movements deliberate, as if each one was a punishment.
"You're not a child anymore, Yash. It's time you started acting like it."
He shifted his weight, his boots scuffing against the wooden floor.
"I know," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "I just… I don't know how to do this."
"Do what?" Riya asked, her brow furrowing.
"Clean up after yourself? Or live like an adult?"
Yash's cheeks flushed, a deep red that spread down his neck.
"Both," he admitted, his gaze still fixed on the floor.
"I'm trying, Riya.
I am But it's hard."
Riya's expression softened, just a fraction, but it was enough to make Yash's heart ache.
She knew how hard it was for him, how the loss of his mother had left a hole in his life that nothing could fill.
But she also knew that coddling him wouldn't help.
"Hard isn't an excuse," she said, her voice gentler now. "Life is hard, Yash.
But you can't keep running from it."
He looked up then, his eyes meeting hers for the first time since he'd entered the room.
There was something in his gaze, a raw vulnerability that made Riya's chest tighten.
"I'm not running," he said, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands.
"I'm just… lost."
Riya's lips pressed into a thin line as she studied him.
She saw the way his shoulders hunched, the way his hands
fidgeted at his sides.
He was a man now, but he still carried the ghost of the boy he'd been, the boy who'd clung
to her like a lifeline after his mother's death.
"Lost or not, you can't keep acting like this,"
she said, her tone firm but not unkind.
"This house isn't a refuge, Yash. It's a home.
And homes need to be cared for."
Yash nodded, his gaze dropping back to the floor.
"I'll clean it up," he repeated, his voice firmer this time.
"Right now."
Riya watched as he pushed himself off the doorframe and moved toward the mess on the table.
His movements were slow, deliberate, as if he was afraid of breaking something.
She felt a pang of guilt as she watched him, a sharp twist in her chest that she couldn't quite name.
She was being too hard on him, she knew that. But she
also knew that she couldn't let him fall into old habits, couldn't let him retreat into the shell he'd built around
himself.
As Yash began to clean, Riya turned back to the cauldron, her fingers tightening around the spoon.
The potion inside was almost ready, its scent filling the room with a sweet, heady aroma.
It was a love potion, one she'd been commissioned to make for a local merchant.
The irony wasn't lost on her—she, a widow, brewing a potion
to kindle love in others while her own heart remained closed off.
"Riya," Yash said, his voice quiet as he paused in his cleaning. "Can I ask you something?"
She glanced over her shoulder, her brow raised.
"What is it?" He hesitated, his hands stilled on the table.
"Do you ever… miss her?" Riya's breath caught in her throat, the question hitting her like a physical blow.
She hadn't expected it, not from Yash, not now.
"Of course I do," she said, her voice soft.
"Every day." Yash nodded, his gaze distant as if he was lost in his own memories.
"I do too," he said. "But sometimes… sometimes it feels like she's just out of reach.
Like if I could just…" He trailed off, his voice breaking as he
struggled to find the words.
Riya set the spoon aside and crossed the room, her movements slow and deliberate.
She stopped in front of him, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders.
"Grief is a strange thing," she said, her voice low.
"It changes us, shapes us in ways we don't always understand. But it doesn't have to define us, Yash. Not forever."
He looked up at her then, his eyes searching hers as if for answers she didn't have.
"How do you do it?"
he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "How do you keep going?"
Riya's lips curved into a small, sad smile. "I don't know," she admitted. "Some days, I just… put one foot in front of the other.
And I remember that she wouldn't want me to stop living, just because she's gone."
Yash's throat worked as he swallowed, his gaze dropping to the floor.
"I wish I could be more like you," he said, his voice thick with emotion.
Riya's hands tightened on his shoulders, her touch firm but gentle.
"You don't have to be like me," she said.
"You just have to be yourself. And that's enough."
For a long moment, they stood there, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the soft bubbling of the potion.
Then, slowly, Yash nodded, his shoulders relaxing beneath her hands.
"Thank you," he said, his voice steady now. "For everything."
Riya smiled, a genuine smile that lit up her face.
"You're welcome,"
she said. "Now, finish cleaning up that mess before I change my mind about dinner."
Yash chuckled, a soft, hesitant sound that made Riya's heart lighten.
As he turned back to the table, she watched him, her gaze lingering on the way his shoulders moved, the way his hands worked with a newfound
purpose.
There was something there, something she hadn't noticed before—a strength, a resilience that had been hidden beneath the shyness and the grief.
And as she turned back to her potion, a thought occurred to her, unbidden and unexpected.
Perhaps, just perhaps, there was more to Yash than she'd realized.
More than either of them had realized.
But that thought, dangerous and thrilling, was one she pushed aside. For now