Morning did not rush them.
It slipped in quietly through the thin curtains, touching the edges of the room before it touched anything else — the floor first, then the wall, then the corner of the bed where Akshay slept.
Kannan had been awake for a while.
Not restless.
Not anxious.
Just… present.
He lay still, listening to the small, ordinary sounds that had once felt impossible to imagine:another person breathing in the same room, steady and unguarded.
For years, sleep had meant distance.
Now it meant proximity that did not ask for courage.
Akshay stirred.
Not sharply.Not alertly.
The way people do when they wake somewhere safe — slowly, uncertain of the hour, unconcerned with the door.
He opened his eyes and looked around.
The ceiling was unfamiliar.The window was not his.The room smelled faintly of coffee from somewhere outside.
He didn't tense.
That alone felt like a miracle that needed no ceremony.
Kannan turned slightly on the mattress, careful not to make the moment heavier than it needed to be.
"Good morning," he said.
Akshay blinked once.
Then, quietly, almost surprised:
"Morning."
He sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair.
A pause.
A small breath.
Then he looked at Kannan and said something so simple it felt enormous.
"I didn't run."
Kannan smiled — not wide, not loud.
Just… real.
"No," he said softly. "You didn't."
They sat in that truth for a moment.
Not congratulating it.
Not turning it into a promise.
Just acknowledging that something had changed — and the world had not ended because of it.
Outside, the town had already begun its day.
Vendors called out softly.A scooter passed.Someone laughed nearby.
Life went on, indifferent to the miracle happening in a small rented room near the edge of the port.
Akshay stood and stretched.
Not cautiously.
Not bracing for impact.
Just like someone who had slept.
"I should… wash up," he said.
Kannan nodded.
"The bathroom's small," he said. "But it works."
Akshay smiled faintly.
"Small works."
Kannan waited while he stepped out, listening to the sound of water running — not as a sentinel, not as a guardian — just as someone letting another person have privacy without fear.
When Akshay returned, towel slung over his shoulder, hair damp, he looked younger.
Not like a boy.
Like a man who no longer had to carry the weight of being older than he was.
They shared tea.
No big breakfast.No ritual.
Just cups in their hands, steam rising, quiet settling naturally between them.
Akshay took a sip.
Then said, thoughtfully:
"This feels strange."
Kannan tilted his head.
"Bad strange?"
Akshay shook his head.
"No. Just… new strange."
He stared into the cup.
"I'm used to mornings meaning I have to decide where I'm not allowed to be anymore."
Kannan let that sink in.
"Today," Akshay continued, "I don't feel pushed out of anywhere."
Kannan's voice was gentle.
"You're not."
Akshay looked at him.
Not with gratitude.
With something steadier.
Trust.
Later, as they stepped outside together, Sara was there.
She had brought idlis wrapped in cloth and a look on her face that tried very hard not to overflow into tears.
She stopped when she saw them.
Akshay first.
Then Kannan.
Then both of them together.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
"Oh," she whispered.
Kannan smiled softly.
Sara approached slowly, as if the moment might shatter if she moved too fast.
Akshay watched her carefully — not defensively, just attentively.
"This is Sara," Kannan said gently. "She's been with me… through the searching."
Akshay nodded.
Sara didn't reach out.
Didn't hug.
Didn't cry.
She simply offered the cloth bundle.
"I made breakfast," she said quietly. "For… both of you."
Akshay hesitated.
Then accepted it.
"Thank you," he said.
The words landed easily now.
Sara smiled — a real one this time — and turned away before emotion made the moment heavier than it needed to be.
Across the street, Arun saw them and closed his eyes for a second in something like prayer.
Jeevan stood a little further back, pretending to watch the traffic.
Ravi wiped his glasses though they weren't dusty.
The world had learned how to hold this gently.
They walked toward the port together.
Not side by side.
Not trailing.
Just… together.
At the dock, Akshay stopped.
Not abruptly.
He looked at the water.
Then at Kannan.
"I don't know what happens next," he said.
Kannan nodded.
"I don't either."
Akshay exhaled slowly.
"But I don't want to disappear today."
Kannan's voice was steady.
"Then don't."
Akshay considered that.
Then nodded.
"Okay."
They sat on the bench — not because it was sacred, but because it was familiar.
The port moved around them.
A fisherman passed, nodded once.
The tea stall owner brought cups without asking.
Habit had formed around something that was no longer fragile.
Akshay sipped his tea.
Set the cup down.
And for the first time, he leaned back without scanning the horizon.
He didn't say anything for a while.
Then, almost casually, he said:
"Maybe… tonight, we can cook."
Kannan blinked.
Surprised — not by the suggestion, but by how natural it felt.
"I'd like that," he said.
Akshay nodded.
"Me too."
And that was how the future began for them.
Not with declarations.Not with plans written in stone.Not with promises that demanded certainty.
But with something far braver:
A second morning.A shared cup of tea.A thought about dinner.
Sometimes, that's all healing is —not the fixing of the past,but the quiet courage to imagine tomorrowwithout fear.