Love Never Dies: A Tale Of Twisted Fairytale

Chapter 13: Language of Flowers

"Of course." She shook her head, muttering.

Something was wrong.

Dev could feel it in the way her hand nervously rubbed her sternum where a thin gold chain with four black beads glinted under the moonlight.

"I came to call you for dinner," he said.

"Is it late already?" She looked around for the clock hanging behind him on the wall. "I hadn't realized."

He glanced at the book still tightly in her clutch and a bunch of rogue papers strewn across the cushioned seat. "You seem preoccupied."

"Just reading."

"Shall I bring you a plate here," he asked.

She denied. "We will have it together. Just give me a minute."

Dev remained standing as she started gathering the yellowish papers and putting them inside her book with care. He did manage to catch a glimpse of the title. Vanamali's retelling of Krishna's Life. First edition.

Her favourite.

Ruhani was brought up in a traditional household that had deep roots in Indian history, which was integrated into her life. Even years later, she retained a fondness for old classics and tales of history and mythology.

Dev had grown up knowing the stories of Ramayan and Mahabharat, the folklores of Krishna and Ram, the tales of gods and men, of heroes and monsters.

She had a collection of such books in her study but this book was her most prized possession. She kept it close to her, reading whenever she needed comfort or guidance.

Dev observed her as she got up to place it on the bedside table. Her movements were stiff and jittery.

"How was your day?" He asked.

"It was fine," she replied distractedly. "There were a few customers. Lily handled them while I organized my office. It had become too cluttered."

Lily was his mother's one and only employee. She liked to work at the flower shop for some extra money and helped Ruhani in dealing with the customers.

"So, a good day then?"

"I suppose."

She had turned her back to him again and was collecting her phone and bag. It looked bulky and Dev could see a thick book peeking out of it.

"Then, do you want to tell me what is worrying you?" he asked.

"It's nothing," she insisted.

But Dev had learned to recognise her patterns and signs when he couldn't trust her words. His own issues were pushed aside.

When Ruhani felt her son's unmovable stare, she sighed. "While coming home, I thought I saw something that wasn't there. It was probably a play of my mind. You know how it gets." She attempted to smile wanly. "I didn't want you to worry."

But he always worried.

Regardless, he tucked this information in his head and ushered her out of the room.

While walking down the silent path, she randomly asked, "Have you heard from your grandfather?"

"No. Not yet."

At least nothing of consequence.

"It's taking too long," she murmured, nibbling at her bottom lip.

Dev slid open the French door that led to the sitting room and the open kitchen. A long island separated the two and a six-seater dining table sat in the middle.