The morning sunlight filtered through the lace curtains of the small apartment above the bookshop, casting a golden hue over the sleeping figure curled on the king-sized bed. At the very edge, barely taking up a third of the space, lay a chubby-cheeked baby, one tiny arm stretched out toward the man beside him.
Rudra stirred as Abhimanyu kicked in his sleep, the little foot thudding gently against Rudra's side. He opened his eyes and smiled sleepily, already accustomed to the tiny fists and flailing limbs that greeted him each morning. It had been ten months of this-ten months of diapers, of midnight feedings, of lullabies sung off-key and bottles warmed in the dead of night.
Ten months without her. Ten months of being a father when he had never been anything more than a writer, a son, a man who liked quiet things and solitude.
He gently rolled to his side, watching the baby breathe. Abhimanyu's lashes were long, dark, resting against plump cheeks. His tiny lips parted as he slept soundly, his fingers curled into little fists.
Rudra's chest ached in a way that wasn't quite pain, wasn't quite joy. Just an emptiness he had learned to carry-an ache for all that had been lost, and a quiet gratitude for what remained.
Downstairs, the bell above the door jingled faintly. That would be Mr. Sharma, who came every morning to return the newspaper he'd borrowed. Rudra slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb the baby, and padded barefoot to the door.
His bookstore-The Lost Words-was still quiet. The warm scent of old paper and ink lingered in the air. Shelves lined with well-loved titles stretched from wall to wall, and a small reading corner with two armchairs and a low wooden table held last night's forgotten teacups.
Rudra unlocked the front door and greeted the elderly man with a nod and a soft "Good morning."
"You should get more help," Mr. Sharma said, eyes twinkling behind thick spectacles. "Running a shop and raising a baby... not easy."
"I manage," Rudra replied with a polite smile.
He always managed. That was the truth of it.
He had managed when his sister had run away with her boyfriend, cutting ties with the family in exchange for love.
He had managed when she'd called him in tears, months pregnant, saying she missed him, that she didn't care about anyone else but wanted her brother to meet her baby.
He had managed when the accident took her and her husband away in a blink, leaving behind a six-day-old infant and no one else willing to claim him.
And when his grandparents had insisted on giving the baby up, when his parents had told him this wasn't his responsibility, when his uncle and aunt had offered money instead of love.
He had chosen. Quietly, without drama. He had packed his things, taken the baby, and walked out of that sprawling ancestral mansion with its marble floors and generational pride. He had left behind wealth, influence, and a life that would have been easier in every way.
But not truer.
Not warmer.
He had moved to Dehradun, rented a modest flat above the bookstore he used to visit as a college student, and bought it when the old owner decided to shift to Delhi. It wasn't much-but it was enough. Enough to build a life that mattered.
By the time Rudra climbed the stairs again, Abhimanyu was awake, sitting up in the bed with a wobble and a soft coo. His little arms reached out the moment he saw Rudra, and Rudra's heart melted all over again.
"Come here, little lion," he whispered, scooping him up.
The baby nuzzled into his chest, chubby hands tugging gently at Rudra's T-shirt. Rudra sat with him on the edge of the bed, rocking slightly. "You hungry?"
A delighted squeal was answer enough.
He carried Abhimanyu to the kitchen, balancing him on one hip as he prepared his morning bottle. The baby gnawed on his shoulder while Rudra worked, giggling when Rudra made funny noises with the spoon.
No, this wasn't the life Rudra had imagined. Not at thirty-one, unmarried, alone in the way most people would define it.
He had never dated. He hadn't even thought about it much, too preoccupied with books, with words, with the small joys of writing and reading. Now, with Abhimanyu in his life, those chances felt even further away. Who would want a man with a baby? A man carrying emotional baggage heavier than most?
But Rudra had long stopped mourning the could-have-beens. His life was not lacking.
It was different.
And sometimes... different is better.
Later that afternoon, Rudra sat in the bookstore with Abhimanyu on his lap, reading aloud from a children's book. The baby babbled happily, pointing at pictures, his little legs kicking against Rudra's lap.
Outside, the sun turned golden, casting long shadows through the windows. Customers came and went, neighbors waved, and the city moved on.
Rudra smiled to himself.
He didn't know then that his carefully built world-his peaceful little corner-was about to change forever.
He didn't know anything at all.
But for now, in this quiet moment with Abhimanyu in his arms and the scent of old books all around,
Rudra was at peace.
And that was enough.
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