Ananya did not look at the watch. She did not glance at the wallet or the cash lying openly on the table. Instead, her eyes immediately went to Aarav.

She noticed the way his head had tilted uncomfortably against the sofa’s wooden arm. Her brows knitted with concern.

“Oh…” she whispered, barely louder than her breath.

Carefully, she put the torch down and walked closer. Aarav could hear her soft footsteps, feel the faint warmth of her presence. His heartbeat grew louder in his ears.

Ananya gently lifted a cushion and slid it under his head, adjusting it so his neck wouldn’t ache. Then she quietly pulled a light shawl from the side chair and covered him, tucking it in like one would do for a tired child.

Her movements were slow, respectful — almost sacred.

Then something unexpected happened.

Ananya’s eyes fell on the open wallet. She hesitated for a moment, not with greed, but with worry. She picked it up carefully, counted the cash without taking a single note, and placed everything neatly back inside.

“This isn’t safe,” she murmured to herself. “Someone might come…”

She looked around, then gently took the watch and the wallet and placed them inside the drawer near the sofa. She locked it, returned the key to its place, and sighed in relief.

But she wasn’t done.

She went to the small temple corner in the room, lit a diya, and closed her eyes. Her lips moved silently.

“Bhagwan,” she whispered, “please give him peace. He looks so tired.”

Aarav felt a strange tightness in his chest.

No one had ever prayed for him like that.

Ananya turned back toward him, hesitated, then softly began humming the same lullaby he had heard days ago. It was low, trembling, but full of warmth.

She sat on the floor a little distance away, not daring to sit beside him, and continued humming while dusting quietly.

A tear slipped from the corner of Aarav’s eye.

At that moment, he realized something he had refused to believe for years — goodness still existed.

When Ananya finally finished her work, she looked at him one last time.

“Good night, sir,” she whispered, and left the room silently.

The door closed.

Aarav opened his eyes fully.

He did not sleep that night.

The next morning, Aarav called Ananya to the study. She entered nervously, her hands folded, eyes lowered.

“Yes, sir?” she asked softly.

Aarav stood by the window, his back to her. For a long moment, he said nothing.

“Ananya,” he finally said, “did you clean the drawing room last night?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, her voice trembling. “I hope… I didn’t disturb you.”

He turned around slowly.

“Why did you move my things?”

Ananya panicked immediately. Her face turned pale.

“I—I’m sorry, sir,” she said quickly. “I didn’t take anything. I only kept them safe. If I made a mistake, you can cut my salary—”

“Look at me,” Aarav said gently.

She raised her eyes, afraid.

Aarav walked to the drawer, opened it, and placed the watch and wallet on the table.

“You passed the test,” he said quietly.

Ananya froze. “Test?”

Aarav exhaled deeply. “I pretended to sleep. I wanted to see who you really were.”

Her eyes widened, then filled with tears.

“You… didn’t trust me?” she asked softly, hurt but respectful.

“I didn’t trust anyone,” he admitted. “But last night… you changed that.”

Ananya wiped her tears quickly. “Sir, I don’t want anything except honest work. This job means survival to me.”

Aarav felt shame wash over him.

“I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry.”

That apology changed everything.

From that day on, Aarav treated Ananya with respect — not as a servant, but as a human being. He ensured she ate proper meals, enrolled her in evening classes when he learned she had left her studies incomplete, and arranged better living conditions for the staff.

Ananya, in return, filled the cold mansion with warmth. She placed fresh flowers every morning, kept the temple lit, and sometimes hummed softly while working.

Slowly, Aarav’s stone heart began to soften.

Weeks passed. Conversations grew longer. Smiles came easier.

One rainy evening, the power went out. The mansion was dark except for candlelight.

Ananya served tea, her hands shaking slightly.

“Are you scared?” Aarav asked.

She nodded shyly. “A little.”

He smiled. “Sit here. It’s okay.”

They talked — about her village, her parents, his loneliness, his broken engagement. For the first time, Aarav spoke without bitterness.

That night, something unspoken bloomed between them — fragile, pure, and honest.

But Aarav was careful. He knew the difference in their positions. He didn’t want to hurt her.

Months later, he called Ananya again to the study.

“I’ve arranged a job for you at my NGO,” he said. “You’ll work with women from villages like yours. You deserve more than cleaning floors.”

Ananya’s eyes filled with gratitude. “Thank you, sir.”

“And one more thing,” he added softly. “I… would like to know you. Not as an employer. As a person. Only if you wish.”

She looked at him, surprised, then smiled — a real smile.

“I would like that,” she said.

Time did the rest.

Respect turned into affection. Affection turned into love.

When Aarav finally asked her to marry him, it wasn’t with diamonds or grandeur — just a simple question and honest eyes.

Ananya said yes.

Their wedding was simple, filled with blessings, not gossip. Aarav learned peace. Ananya found security without losing dignity.

And on quiet nights, when Ananya hummed that old lullaby, Aarav slept — not as a rich man guarded by walls, but as a man whose heart had finally found home.