Love is Life

Echoes Of The Past

Rehaan didn’t believe in fate—but something about Aanya made him rethink everything.

For weeks now, he had changed routines he’d followed for years. He still ran the operations, still had a reputation to uphold, but something in his eyes had softened. And his crew noticed.

Especially Zayn.

“You skipping the arms deal meet for a girl’s book fair now?” Zayn teased as Rehaan sat in his car, staring at a flyer Aanya had handed him—a literature fest where she was reading a poem she’d written.

“Handle it without me,” Rehaan said without hesitation.

Zayn stared. “You serious?”

“I’m not missing it.”

The event was held in a quiet college auditorium—a world completely alien to Rehaan. Students, teachers, poets, and writers filled the space. Not a single gun in sight. No one watching their backs. No tension humming in the air.

Rehaan wore black, as always. But he left the gold rings behind, wore a plain shirt, and tucked his tattoos under sleeves.

He stood at the back, watching Aanya walk up to the stage. Confident. Poised. She spoke into the mic, her voice smooth, every word rich with emotion.

The poem was about healing. About how broken people don’t need fixing—they need understanding.

Rehaan had never related to anything more.

When it was over, he didn’t walk up to her. He waited outside near the parking lot. Aanya appeared twenty minutes later, startled to see him there.

“You came,” she said, surprised but smiling.

“You invited me,” he replied, a rare gentleness in his tone.

“I didn’t think it was your scene.”

“It isn’t,” he admitted. “But you are.”

That made her pause. Her smile faded, replaced by something more vulnerable. “Why me, Rehaan? Why are you... trying?”

He looked away for a moment, then back at her.

“Because when you walk into a room, it’s like the chaos quiets. And I’ve lived in chaos too long.”

Aanya didn’t respond right away. “You’re not like most guys I’ve met. You carry... shadows.”

“I was raised in them.”

“And now?”

He took a slow breath. “Trying to find light.”

A car honked behind them, breaking the tension. Aanya didn’t say goodbye. She just reached into her bag and handed him a small book—her own collection of poems.

“Start with page 12,” she said.

Then she left.

Back in his apartment, Rehaan opened the book. Page 12 was titled “Wolves Can Learn to Walk in Gardens.”

It hit him like a bullet—but this one didn’t hurt. It healed.

---

The next week, Rehaan spent more time alone than usual. Not in bars, not with his men—just reading, thinking. Remembering his past. His father, a ruthless don, had taught him fear before he learned love. His mother had died when he was eight. No lullabies, only orders. No birthdays, only bloodshed.

He realized something now: he had never lived. He had only survived.

Aanya was showing him life—one page, one moment at a time.

But the streets never stay quiet for long.

One night, as Rehaan walked Aanya out of the club, a black car pulled up too close, too fast. The window rolled down, and a voice from the shadows called, “You’re getting soft, Malhotra.”

A warning. Or a threat.

Aanya’s brows furrowed. “Who was that?”

Rehaan stared at the taillights disappearing into the night. “A reminder.”

“Of what?”

He looked at her, torn between two worlds. “That peace has a price.”

She placed a hand gently on his arm. “And some things are worth paying for.”

Rehaan didn’t say anything. But his silence spoke volumes.