Lanterns in the Fog

Part 1

The man faltered, momentarily caught off guard by the ferocity in her tone. He muttered something incoherent, his drunken rage coiling tighter around him. When he reached for her again, she didn't hesitate. Her knee shot upward, landing squarely in his stomach. He doubled over with a groan, clutching his midsection.

But the moment of triumph was fleeting. Staggering upright, his anger turned feral. He lunged toward her, his hands outstretched. She spun away, but the motion cost her balance, and she stumbled toward the wall.

That was when my body moved of its own accord. The observer within me—the quiet chronicler who had always stayed on the edges—vanished.

I bent down, grabbed a jagged rock from the roadside, and flung it with all my might. It struck the ground at his feet, sending up a small burst of dust. "That's enough!" I shouted, my voice sharp and unyielding. "Back off and leave her alone. Now!"

The man turned to face me, his bleary eyes narrowing. He took a step forward, and for a moment, I wondered if I'd just made things worse. But then, perhaps sensing the combined resolve of two strangers against him, or simply losing to his own drunken haze, he spat a curse under his breath and stumbled off into the darkness.

I turned to the girl. She was leaning against the wall, her breathing heavy but controlled. A thin streak of crimson traced its way down her temple, the only sign of the earlier struggle. As I stepped closer, she straightened, brushing a hand across her face as if to wipe away any trace of vulnerability.

"Are you okay?" I asked, hesitant, my voice soft against the night.

She looked at me, her dark eyes sharp and assessing. Her beauty struck me—not the kind that begged for admiration, but the kind that demanded respect. Her features were bold, her gaze unwavering, carrying a power that seemed to fill the space around her. She appeared like a figment conjured from some forgotten poem, a vision so vivid that I doubted its reality.

"I'm fine," she said, her voice steady, though her hand instinctively touched the wound at her temple. "Thanks for stepping in. You didn't have to, but... thanks."

I nodded, unsure how to respond to someone who, despite the circumstances, carried herself with such composure. "You didn't need much help," I admitted with a small smile. "That knee to the stomach was impressive."

A corner of her lips lifted into a smirk. "Yeah, well, drunk men make easy targets."

She pushed off the wall and brushed the dust from her saree, her movements deliberate and unhurried. As she adjusted the loose end of her saree, she glanced at me again, this time with something softer in her expression.

"Still," she said, "it was brave of you. Not many people would've stepped in."

"Not many people can throw rocks with such bad aim," I joked, trying to lighten the mood.

I stood there for a moment, waiting for her to respond, the quiet of the night pressing against us like a weight. The small streak of blood on her temple seemed to glow in the dim streetlight, but there was no sign of any tremor in her voice or eyes. She was composed, her presence unwavering, even in the face of such violence.

"Do you want to go to a hospital? We can get that cleaned up properly," I suggested, watching her closely.

She tilted her head slightly, the faintest of smiles curling her lips. "No need. I'll take care of it at home," she replied coolly, her voice like a quiet assurance.

I could feel her pulling away, a veil of distance descending between us. Yet, there was a magnetism in her that tugged at me, and for reasons I couldn't yet explain, I wanted to be close to her. I didn't know why. Perhaps it was the way she seemed so entirely composed in a world that often seemed too chaotic to bear. Perhaps it was the way her defiance in the face of that man's brutality had struck something in me.