The scent of sandalwood and burning ghee lingered in the air, clinging to her skin like an old memory. The temple bells rang in the distance, their echoes stretching into the morning quiet.

She hadn't been to the temple in a long time.

Not since that day.

Not since her.

Rhea closed her eyes, letting the past slip in as effortlessly as the breeze through the open courtyard.

She hadn't meant to stay.

She had passed by the temple on her way elsewhere, intending only to glance at the morning prayers in passing. But something about the way the flames flickered in the dim light, the way the stone floor felt cool beneath her fingertips when she brushed against the steps, had made her pause.

And then she had seen Kunti.

She had been kneeling before the altar, a silent figure against the golden glow of the temple lamps.

Kunti was always composed, always poised. Even here, even in prayer, she carried herself with the quiet dignity of a woman who had been broken before but had never let the world see the cracks.

She was a woman built on resilience. A mother of warriors. A queen without a throne.

And Rhea had always wondered—was she truly unshakable? Or had she simply learned how to hold herself together so well that no one dared to ask if she was breaking?

Rhea had hesitated at the temple entrance, but Kunti had turned before she could leave.

"You do not pray," Kunti had said—not as a question, but as an observation.

Rhea had considered lying. But lying to Kunti felt like trying to deceive the gods themselves.

"No."

Kunti had studied her for a moment before shifting slightly, an unspoken invitation.

Rhea had taken it.

They had sat there in silence for a long time, the temple's golden light stretching their shadows across the stone floor.

Then, Kunti had spoken.

"Tell me, Rhea—have you ever made a choice that had no right answer?"

Rhea had stilled.

She had not been expecting that.

The words settled over her like a weight, pressing against something she had long kept buried.

She had thought of her father's empty seat at court. She had thought of her mother bolting the doors at night, whispering prayers Rhea never understood. She had thought of the moment she had stopped waiting for someone to come home.

Her throat had felt tight, but her voice had been steady when she had finally said, "Why do you ask?"

Kunti had not answered right away. Her gaze had remained steady, but there had been something behind it—something heavier than words.

"Because some choices are not ours to make," Kunti had murmured. "And yet, we must live with them."

Rhea had exhaled slowly.

She had known that feeling.

She had lived with it since she was a child—since the moment the world had shifted beneath her feet, and no one had cared enough to explain why.

"Have you made such a choice?" Rhea had asked carefully.

Kunti had inhaled, her fingers tightening slightly over the folds of her sari.

"Many times."

Her voice had been measured, composed—but Rhea had heard the weight beneath it, the edges of something unspoken.

"A mother," Kunti had murmured, "is meant to protect her children. To keep them safe, no matter the cost."

She had paused. Then, so softly that Rhea had almost missed it—

"But what if keeping them safe means giving them up?"

The air had shifted.

Something had settled deep in Rhea's chest, something cold and aching.

She had not meant to think of her mother.

But she had.

Of the way she had never answered Rhea's questions, had only held her closer at night. Of the way she had locked the doors even when there was no visible threat. Of the way she had vanished, just like her father, leaving Rhea behind.

Rhea had turned her gaze back to the flickering temple lamps. "And did it?"

Kunti had not looked at her. "Did what?"

"Keep them safe."

Silence had stretched between them.

Then—just for a fraction of a second—Kunti had faltered.

It had been quick, barely noticeable. A flicker of hesitation, a crack in her otherwise unshakable presence.

She had not answered.

But she hadn't needed to.

Rhea had looked away, fingers brushing absently against the hem of her tunic.

She had always thought of Kunti as someone unwavering. But now, watching her, she had realized—this was not the absence of doubt. This was a woman who had made peace with the ghosts of her own choices.

And Rhea?

She was still haunted by hers.

The temple bells had rung in the distance, marking the hour. Kunti had straightened, her expression smoothing back into something unreadable.

She had turned to Rhea with a look that was almost fond, though guarded.

"You remind me of someone."

Rhea had raised an eyebrow. "Should I be flattered or concerned?"

Kunti had let out a quiet chuckle, but had not answered.

She had risen gracefully to her feet. "The world does not always give us the choices we want, Rhea. And one day, you may find yourself standing where I once stood."

Rhea had watched as Kunti had turned and walked away, her presence lingering even after she was gone.

She had sat there for a long while after, staring at the flickering temple flames, trying to ignore the feeling that Kunti's words had settled into something far deeper than just a conversation.

A warning, perhaps.

Or a truth she was not yet ready to face.

The memory faded like smoke, leaving behind only the weight of what had been said.

Rhea blinked, pulling herself back to the present. The temple courtyard was empty now, save for the distant murmurs of passing priests.

She exhaled, shaking off the past like dust from her shoulders.

She had learned long ago that dwelling on memories changed nothing.

And yet, some ghosts never left.