The Book That Waited 📚

Third person :-

As Samriddhi set foot in Prayagraj, the city seemed to whisper her name. The air smelled different here—recognizable, dusty, mixed with the aroma of street-side chai vendors and the essence of timeless tales.

Her dad stood outside the Airport's entrance eyeing the throng with that same gentle concern he'd shown since her departure to university. When he spotted her, his face lit up with a smile that didn't quite match the tears ready to fall from his eyes.

"My llittle designer is back ," he said embracing her .

Samriddhi chuckled nestling her face in his kurta . "I'm not that small now, Baba."

"You'll always stay small and little when I hold you, dear."

Their drive home included him updating her on everything—the neighbor's child who had grown up in a flash, the mango tree that wouldn't bear fruit this season, and how her mom still gave too much water to the money plant and pointed the finger at the sun.

The moment they got back, her mom was waiting by the entrance, her arms folded acting like she didn't care.

"Oh look who remembered this house exists," she said but her actions of tapping g her foot impatiently tells different story....

Samriddhi grinned and ran into her arms anyway. “Missed you too, maa.”

Her mother muttered something about not spoiling her lipstick with hugs but didn’t let go for a full minute.

The house felt smaller but warmer. Every corner seemed to whisper stories from her childhood. Her room was just as she’d left it—slightly messy, full of sticky notes, a half-broken mannequin in the corner draped in an old dupatta.

The first few days passed like honey—slow, sweet, and golden. She helped her mother cook, went to the terrace with her father every evening, and met up with school friends in dusty cafés with cracked tabletops and unlimited laughter.

She didn’t talk much about her thesis during those days. She just let herself breathe. But something inside her kept ticking—an eagerness, a quiet pull back to what had brought her here.

On the sixth day, she tied her hair into a sleek braid, wore a simple cotton kurta, and told her mother, “I’m going to the library today.”

“The old one near Civil Lines?” her father asked over breakfast.

“Yep. I heard they’ve got some good collections on handloom and textile history.”

Her mother arched an eyebrow. “Ya toh tujhe koi prince charming milega wahan...” she smirked, “...ya tu kisi purani rani ki atma se milke wapas ayegi.”

Samriddhi rolled her eyes. “If I find a prince, maa, I’ll first check if he knows how to colour coordinate.”

They all laughed.

The library was older than she remembered. Not ancient exactly—but the kind of place where the silence had weight, where even the light filtering through the high arched windows felt like it had seen things.

“Namaste, beta,” came a voice from behind the front desk.

She turned. It was Mr. Rawat, the head librarian. A thin man with silver-framed glasses, always in a khadi kurta, and a soft, polite voice.

“Oh! Namaste, Uncle,” Samriddhi smiled warmly.

“You’re back from Mumbai, hmm? Your father mentioned you were coming for research,” he said, adjusting his glasses.

“Yes! I’m doing my final year thesis—something on ancient fashion. Thought this place might help me.”

“You’ll find the fashion and culture section down the third aisle on the left. Let me know if you need anything,” he nodded, stepping away.

She wandered past the rows slowly, her fingers grazing the spines—each one a story waiting to be unwrapped. The Art & Culture section stood proud in the middle, surrounded by slightly bowed wooden shelves. Somewhere between Indian Folk Paintings and Costumes of the Mughal Era, she paused.

And that’s when she saw it.

A book—thick, heavy, bound in an earthy maroon cloth.Its cover shimmered faintly, with gold designs carved like ancient embroidery. It looked untouched by the dust that kissed every other title.

She leaned closer. The title was barely visible, worn like an old secret or something VIJAYAKSH....

Her fingers itched to open it. She reached out, the spine warm under her touch—as if it had been waiting.

Waiting for her to come and open it without even wasting a single mili second.

And just then, a bell rang. A soft but clear chime that echoed down the aisle.

“The library is closing in fifteen minutes,” a voice called out gently—Mr. Rawat, making his final rounds.

Samriddhi blinked, realizing how quickly time had slipped away. She looked around, saw only two other readers in the hall, and reluctantly pulled her hand back from the book.

Tomorrow for sure , she promised herself silently.

She glanced back at the shelf one last time before stepping away.

For a brief second, she thought she saw the embroidery on the cover move, ever so slightly—like a ripple through silk.

But maybe that was just the golden light.

Or maybe it wasn’t.

Samriddhi’s POV:-

I stepped out of the library with a strange restlessness bubbling under my skin. The sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows on the pavement, and the breeze had that late-afternoon laziness to it. I should have felt satisfied—I had found something. Something potentially rich for my project. But instead, it felt like I'd left a conversation incomplete.

Why did I feel like the book had... breathed?

I shook my head and walked faster.

By the time I reached home, the sky was painted in dusky pinks and oranges. I stepped through the gate, kicking off my sandals at the doorstep the way I always had as a kid. As soon as I entered, the familiar smell of masoor dal and tadka welcomed me like a warm blanket.

“You're late!” Maa shouted from the kitchen, even before seeing me. “Planning to turn into a bookworm already?”

I grinned, tossing my bag onto the sofa. “Not yet. But I think I found something interesting today.”

She peeked out from behind the curtain, wiping her hands on her dupatta, a frown nestled between her eyebrows. “Was he tall?”

I blinked. “What?”

“This ‘something interesting.’ Was he tall? Rich? Handsome? Smelled like books and heartbreak?” she teased, giving me a smirk that only mothers can get away with.

I rolled my eyes, laughing. “It’s a book, Maa! Not a Bollywood hero.”

“Hmph,” she muttered, vanishing back into the kitchen. “Books can’t cook you dinner or take you to Switzerland.”

As I followed the scent into the dining room, Papa was already seated, reading the newspaper like he hadn’t already read three versions of it on his phone. He looked up, his eyes instantly softening.

“There my champion comes ,” he said with a smile that still made my heart melt.

I sat next to him, stealing a bite from his plate. “Guess what? I found a book today. Or maybe… it found me.”

He raised a brow. “That’s a mysterious way to describe a library visit.”

“No, really,” I said, leaning closer. “It was different. Hidden. Ornate. Almost like... it was waiting for someone to notice it.”

He placed a hand over mine. “ beta, sometimes the most important things in our lives don’t scream for attention. They just... wait. Quietly.”

His words lingered with me through dinner. Even while Maa complained that the sabzi had too much salt because she was too busy “daydreaming about my Switzerland wedding,” my mind kept drifting back to the golden patterns on the book’s cover.

Later that night, I stood at my window, staring at the sleepy street, lights dimming one by one. The night was quiet. Too quiet.

I don’t know what pulled me to check my phone, but when I did, I noticed something strange. A notification.

“Reminder set for tomorrow: Return to VIJAYAKSH.”

My breath caught.

I hadn’t set any reminder. I hadn’t even noted down the name of the book. And yet, there it was. Clear. Specific.

I opened my calendar.

There was nothing there.

No scheduled alert. No reminder.

I stared at my screen, my heart now beating in a slow, steady panic.

Was this some kind of glitch?

Was my phone… listening to my thoughts? Or something

I turned it off and placed it face down, the chill in my spine refusing to fade.

Whatever that book was, it wasn’t just waiting.

It was calling.