A Tale of Returning Hearts
By BloodRose
She touched the frame of the painting now. “Do you think it’s punishment? That we keep meeting, burning in the flame of something we can never hold?”
He shook his head gently. “Or maybe… it's the only way we can exist. In every age, in every fire.”
She turned to him then, really looked at him; the crease near his left eye, the way his breath caught when he looked at her, as if seeing something he feared might disappear.
By BloodRose
The city was quiet that evening, cloaked in the hush before the first rain. Inside a modest art gallery tucked between forgotten alleys, a woman stood alone, her eyes fixed on a painting; a swirl of light and shadow, a blaze and a silhouette. She didn’t flinch when she heard footsteps behind her.
"You always find me in front of this one," she said, without turning.
He smiled, stepping closer. "Because you always stand like you've seen it before… in another time."
They looked at the painting; a faceless man and woman reaching for each other across a wall of flame.
"You always find me in front of this one," she said, without turning.
He smiled, stepping closer. "Because you always stand like you've seen it before… in another time."
They looked at the painting; a faceless man and woman reaching for each other across a wall of flame.
Flashback – 16th Century, Thanjavur
She was the princess, he a poet-warrior. Their meetings were stolen moments in temple corridors, verses pressed into palm leaves, eyes locking during royal processions. When her marriage was arranged for alliance, he vanished into battle. They met once more; bruised, bleeding, under the full moon.
“Will both of us ever see a life together?” she had asked.
He pressed her hand to his heart. “If not now, in another time.”
As the city burned under siege, their fingers slipped apart.
She was the princess, he a poet-warrior. Their meetings were stolen moments in temple corridors, verses pressed into palm leaves, eyes locking during royal processions. When her marriage was arranged for alliance, he vanished into battle. They met once more; bruised, bleeding, under the full moon.
“Will both of us ever see a life together?” she had asked.
He pressed her hand to his heart. “If not now, in another time.”
As the city burned under siege, their fingers slipped apart.
Back in the present, the woman blinked slowly, as if shaking off the weight of memory. "I see us here, too," she whispered.
He glanced sideways. "I know. You were wearing a red silk sari. I wore that ridiculous turban."
They laughed, but their eyes misted.
He glanced sideways. "I know. You were wearing a red silk sari. I wore that ridiculous turban."
They laughed, but their eyes misted.
Flashback – 1940s, Madras
She was a freedom fighter with fire in her voice; he, a radio technician secretly recording resistance messages. She was arrested one morning before she could leave town. He waited by the train station for hours, holding a notebook filled with poems for her.
A year later, he found her name in the obituary pages; unknown cause, unnamed prison.
But every year, he lit two lamps; one for freedom, one for her.
She was a freedom fighter with fire in her voice; he, a radio technician secretly recording resistance messages. She was arrested one morning before she could leave town. He waited by the train station for hours, holding a notebook filled with poems for her.
A year later, he found her name in the obituary pages; unknown cause, unnamed prison.
But every year, he lit two lamps; one for freedom, one for her.
She touched the frame of the painting now. “Do you think it’s punishment? That we keep meeting, burning in the flame of something we can never hold?”
He shook his head gently. “Or maybe… it's the only way we can exist. In every age, in every fire.”
She turned to him then, really looked at him; the crease near his left eye, the way his breath caught when he looked at her, as if seeing something he feared might disappear.
Flashback – 1800s, Paris
She was a dancer at an Indian exhibition; he, a French painter captivated not by her form, but by the sorrow behind her eyes. He painted her over and over, until his patrons demanded he stop.
“I will lose everything,” he said.
She kissed his paint-stained fingers. “Then let me be your everything.”
He died young, in poverty, clutching a half-finished canvas of her face. She disappeared into history.
She was a dancer at an Indian exhibition; he, a French painter captivated not by her form, but by the sorrow behind her eyes. He painted her over and over, until his patrons demanded he stop.
“I will lose everything,” he said.
She kissed his paint-stained fingers. “Then let me be your everything.”
He died young, in poverty, clutching a half-finished canvas of her face. She disappeared into history.
Now, she stood before him, no longer hiding behind fear or fate. "Do you remember what I asked you last time?"
He nodded. “Will both of us meet at least once, or will it always be just one chasing the other?”
She stepped closer, close enough that their breaths tangled like threads. “This time, I came to find you.”
He smiled, eyes gleaming. “Then maybe this time… the flame won’t burn us.”
Their hands met, finally, not across centuries, or smoke, or silence. But here, in this room. In this moment. As the rain began to fall outside, washing away everything except this:
Two souls who had loved, lost, and found each other; again and again, until the fire no longer separated them… but warmed them whole.
He nodded. “Will both of us meet at least once, or will it always be just one chasing the other?”
She stepped closer, close enough that their breaths tangled like threads. “This time, I came to find you.”
He smiled, eyes gleaming. “Then maybe this time… the flame won’t burn us.”
Their hands met, finally, not across centuries, or smoke, or silence. But here, in this room. In this moment. As the rain began to fall outside, washing away everything except this:
Two souls who had loved, lost, and found each other; again and again, until the fire no longer separated them… but warmed them whole.
in every life.
love subject... Awesome effort Darls... Happy to see your another talent in this story narrative telling keep it up... Expecting much more stories from your dairy.... Love it
