The house was silent when Amrutha opened her eyes.

Morning had come.

For the first time in her life, she had woken up in a man’s room, on a man’s bed—but alone.

Her new husband was nowhere to be seen.

Not that she had expected anything else.

Rudhran was not a man who wasted words. He had married her because he had decided to. Not because he had wanted to.

She was just… here.

A widow yesterday. A wife today. A stranger in her own life.

She sighed and stepped out of the bed, her feet touching the cold stone floor. She had to bathe. She had to get ready.

The house—his house—was already awake, and she didn’t want to be the last one to step out of the room.

------

Steam rose around her as the cold water ran down her body.

The chill seeped into her skin, but she didn’t shiver.

She was used to it.

Used to being told, "You should lose some weight, Amrutha."

"Your face is pretty, but if you were thinner, you would have been perfect."

"Try eating less. Who will marry a girl who is so round?"

Her mother had said it. Her aunts had said it. The women in the village had said it.

Even her first husband—the man who had died right after tieing the thaali around her neck—had said it.

She had been too much for him.

Too soft. Too full. Too present.

Now, as she stood in front of the mirror, wearing Rudhran’s name instead of her own, she wondered…

What did he think?

Not that it mattered. He didn’t look at her.

Not once.

Not when he tied the thaali. Not when he ate beside her. Not when they entered his room.

Not even when he told her to sleep.

Did he find her unworthy too?

Or did he simply not care?

She let out a slow breath and reached for the saree.

The blouse was deep maroon, the saree a dark green woven with gold. Heavy, expensive. Something a bride would wear.

Something that didn’t feel like her.

The fabric clung to her, still damp from her skin, the pleats folding over her waist. She reached for the mirror, pressing her palm against the glass.

Her hair was still dripping.

She pulled it over her shoulder, fingers running through the thick, wet strands before braiding it loosely. A few strands stuck to her skin.

A drop of water slid down her neck, disappearing beneath the gold chain he had placed on her yesterday.

His father’s chain. His grandfather’s chain.

A legacy.

Not a gift. Not love.

Just a statement. A warning.

That she was his now.

And yet, he had left before she woke up.

She stepped out of the room, her hands gripping the edge of her saree, heart pounding.

Would he be waiting?

Would he say something?

Would he look at her?

Rudhran sat at the head of the long wooden dining table. His usual place.

The seat of the man who ruled not just this house but every village surrounding it.

He was speaking to his uncle in low tones, discussing something about the panchayat, the land disputes, the business, the politics.

As if nothing had changed.

As if he hadn’t married a woman yesterday.

As if she didn’t even exist.

She hesitated at the doorway, fingers tightening around the pallu of her saree.

Then, slowly, she stepped inside.

The sound of her anklets made his uncle and aunt look up. His cousin’s wife gave her a once-over. Paati, sitting on the swing nearby, let out a small tch sound but said nothing.

But Rudhran?

He didn’t even glance at her.

She lowered her gaze and sat down at the end of the table, as far from him as she could.

A servant placed food before her, and she picked at it slowly, aware of the eyes watching her, aware of the whispers just beyond hearing.

Widow. Unlucky. Too much. Not enough.

It had always been like this.

She thought of her first husband then.

The boy who had agreed to marry her because their families had decided.

The boy who had been annoyed with her weight, her softness, her presence.

The boy who had died just after tieing the thaali, before he could claim her, before she could see if a marriage would have softened his sharp words.

Would he have grown to love her?

She didn’t know.

And now, it didn’t matter.

Because she was his now.

The man who never spoke.

The man who never looked.

The man who had left before she woke up.

And the man who, right now, stood up from the table, pushed his chair back, and walked away—without saying a single word to her.

Later, as she sat near the kitchen, watching the women prepare lunch, she heard the voices again.

"Ayya hasn’t even spoken to her."

"Did you see him looking at her? No? Exactly."

"Maybe ayya regrets it."

"What if he never touches her?"

"She was a widow. Ayya deserves someone pure."

Pure.

The word made her flinch.

She pressed her hands into her lap, digging her nails into her skin, breathing slowly.

She had survived worse words.

She had survived worse silences.

She could survive this too.

That night, she sat inside his room again.

This time, he was there before her.

Sitting on the same wooden chair, his long fingers tapping against the carved armrest, his sharp eyes watching the flames of the small lamp.

For the first time that day, she let herself truly look at him.

His broad shoulders, his sharp jaw, the strength in his arms, the quiet power in his presence.

He was everything her first husband had not been.

Strong. Respected. Feared.

And yet, he had still married her.

Why?

She didn’t know.

And he wouldn’t tell her.

He didn’t say a word as she walked past him, as she sat on the bed, as she unpinned her earrings and placed them on the bedside table.

He just sat there. Watching the flames.

Finally, she broke the silence.

"Why did you marry me?"

His fingers stopped tapping.

The flames flickered.

For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer.

Then, in a voice so low it felt like thunder in the still night, he said,

"Because I decided to."

That was all.

No explanation. No warmth. No regret.

Just a decision.

A statement.

A fate she could not escape.

And with that, he stood up, turned off the lamp, and left her sitting there in the dark.

Bye bhr.