A pair of footsteps echoed in the silent corridor as Viraj approached the study. His pace was measured, almost hesitant, each step betraying the weight in his chest. When he finally stopped before the door, he lingered, fingers tightening around the files in his hand as though the grip alone might steady him. A knock, then the slow creak of the door, and he stepped inside.
Ever since the day his misconceptions had been ripped apart and the truth laid bare, he had avoided everyone. Most of all Rishikesh. But today there was no escaping. The investigation had concluded, and since Rishikesh hadn’t gone to the office because of the court case, Viraj knew he would have to report to him in person. His resolve faltered the moment his eyes landed inside the room.
For the Flame to Burn, It Needs a Spark These words—these poems, musings, echoes of soul—they are pieces of me, offered to the void. If they’ve ever stirred something in you, made silence feel understood or chaos feel poetic… Then let your support be the wind beneath this fire. A small gesture. A mighty impact. Because art survives on love—and the occasional coffee. ☕✨
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