Page 51 of Scars and Crowns

Because when Anamika shared her dreams . . . She handed them to people with complete trust. I considered that the greatest privilege of my life. She doesn't need to know any of that. Not yet. She'd refuse everything. Try giving it back. Insisted it was too much. Her pride carried her through years I still know almost nothing about. I refuse to become the reason it bends now.

She walks toward the entrance slowly. Almost reverently. I stay one step behind. Watching. She trails her fingers lightly across one of the wooden shelves. Looks toward the reading corner. Runs her eyes over rows waiting to be filled with books.

Morning sunlight pours through the front windows, catching loose strands of her hair. For one impossible moment . . . She's fifteen again. Standing on the palace ramparts. Talking so excitedly about books that she'd forgotten to breathe between sentences.

A quiet hope settles inside me. Maybe this place can become what the palace never managed to be. A place where she doesn't have to stay guarded. Where she can breathe. Where she remembers who she was before life taught her to expect disappointment.

She turns around. Her eyes are properly wet now. She's smiling. Not politely. Not carefully. Completely.

The kind of smile I haven't seen in years. "Thank you . . ." She pauses. Then laughs softly. "Pretty Boy." Everything inside me stops. For a second . . . I forget where I am. I haven't heard that nickname since we were teenagers. She'd always used it whenever I became too serious. Whenever life felt too heavy. Whenever she wanted to make me laugh instead of letting me brood. Two ordinary words. That's all.

Yet they land squarely in the centre of my chest. I have to look away. Not because I want to. Because if I keep looking at her . . . She's going to see exactly what those two words just did to me.

Seven years.

Seven years of learning how to keep my face unreadable.

How to sit through political negotiations without giving away a single thought. How to let entire rooms wonder what I was thinking. And somehow . . . One old nickname destroys every bit of that discipline in a heartbeat.

I look toward the shelves instead. Take one slow breath. Then another. When I finally trust my voice again . . . It's rougher than I'd intended. "Anytime . . . " I smile back at her. " . . . Daisy."

SOMETHING OF MY OWN

ANAMIKA

The bell above the door gives one soft chime as Yuvaan steps outside. A second later, the sound of the car fades into the afternoon traffic, leaving behind a silence that feels . . . different. Not lonely. Peaceful.

I don't move for a long moment. I simply stand in the middle of the shop, turning slowly in a circle, letting my eyes travel over every little detail.

The cream-coloured walls. The wooden shelves waiting patiently for books. The daisies painted carefully around the windows. The little reading nook tucked into the corner with soft cushions scattered across the floor, as though it has been waiting years for a child to curl up there with a storybook.

I breathe in deeply. Fresh paint. New wood. It doesn't smell like an old bookshop yet. It smells like possibility. Something tight inside my chest loosens so quietly that I almost don't notice it. It's a strange feeling . . . Standing inside a dream you'd forgotten belonged to you.

Once upon a time I could have described every inch of this place without closing my eyes. I knew exactly where the shelves would go. Where sunlight would fall in the afternoons. How I wanted customers to feel when they walked through the door. I used to imagine the dust floating lazily through beams of light while someone sat by the window reading for hours because no one hurried them to leave.

I hadn't thought about any of that in years. Since Sara was born, every decision I've made has revolved around three simple questions.

Can I feed her?

Can I keep her safe?

Can I make sure we still have a roof over our heads tomorrow?

If the answer helped one of those three things . . . It stayed. If it didn't . . . It disappeared.

Dreams were usually the first things to go.

Standing here now, my fingers brushing lightly across one of the empty shelves, I suddenly realise how long it's been since I wanted something simply because it made me happy.

I'd almost forgotten that version of myself existed.

I smile quietly. Then shake my head at my own thoughts. Trust Yuvaan to somehow remember the dream I'd forgotten.

My eyes drift back toward the front windows. The painted daisies. The name above the entrance.

Daisy's Books.

He'd looked almost nervous while telling me I could change it. "If you don't like the name . . . " His voice had been so careful. " . . . I'll have the sign repainted."