Mohana chose the railway station because no one ever questioned fate there.
People met, parted, lost things, found strangers—everything felt temporary. No one examined coincidence too closely on a platform soaked in noise and hurry.
Rajeev Singh Raizada arrived before dawn.
The fog lay thick, swallowing the ends of platforms, turning people into half-forms that appeared and vanished without warning. The station smelled of damp iron and tea. He checked his watch twice, irritation blooming when the announcement confirmed what he already knew—his train had departed.
A trivial inconvenience.
The kind that should have ended with a sigh and a phone call.
Instead, it altered his life.
She stood near the tea stall, slightly apart from the crowd. Not striking. Not forgettable either. Just… present. As if the fog had shaped itself into a woman and decided to remain.
She stepped into his path at precisely the wrong moment.
The collision was gentle.
"I'm sorry," she said, steadying herself instinctively, fingers brushing his wrist.
Her touch lingered a second longer than necessary.
Rajeev felt it then—a faint pressure behind his eyes, like a thought trying to surface and failing. He blinked, frowning, but the feeling dissolved into warmth.
"No, it's fine," he replied, surprising himself with the softness of his tone.
She smiled, relieved. The smile was careful, measured, designed to invite trust without demanding it.
"I thought I missed my train," she said quietly. "I don't know what to do now."
There was no desperation in her voice. Just vulnerability. Clean. Palatable.
Rajeev glanced around. The crowd surged and thinned, surged again. Announcements crackled overhead, their words stretching unnaturally, bending at the edges. He noticed, distantly, that the sounds felt muffled—as if cotton had been pressed into his ears.
Mohana lowered her gaze.
As she did, her fingers brushed the platform floor again.
No one noticed.
The spell did not announce itself with symbols or fire. It crept in through rhythm—her breathing syncing with his, her pauses shaping his responses, her words landing just before his thoughts could form objections.
"I'm alone here," she said. "Just for today."
Rajeev nodded.
It felt like the obvious thing to do.
They sat on a bench. Shared tea. Talked about nothing important. Yet every word she spoke wrapped itself around his mind, smoothing sharp edges, loosening memory. His family's faces floated up once—his mother's voice, the weight of responsibility—and then gently sank away, as if someone had pressed them underwater.
Mohana watched it happen.
She did not rush.
That was her strength.
Hours passed without weight. When she laughed softly at something he said, the sound curled inside his chest and stayed there. When she looked at him, he felt seen in a way that frightened him—and thrilled him more.
At one point, he thought he saw something strange.
In the reflection of a passing train window, her eyes flashed a deep, burning red.
He blinked.
They were normal again.
By afternoon, the idea of leaving her felt wrong. Unnatural. As if doing so would tear something essential from him.
"I don't want to be alone anymore," she said suddenly, voice barely above a whisper.
Rajeev did not question why those words felt meant for him.
"Neither do I," he replied.
The registrar's office was small, stale, forgettable. A place where decisions were reduced to signatures and stamps.
No rituals. No witnesses. No hesitation.
Rajeev signed without reading. His hand did not shake. His heart felt light, buoyant, utterly convinced.
Mohana signed last.
For a fleeting instant, her reflection in the glass showed what she truly was—red eyes blazing, black nails curling slightly, a shadow of a braid too long to belong to any human woman.
Then the stamp fell.
Final.
Binding.
As they stepped back into the evening light, Rajeev felt complete.
Mohana felt victorious.
Far away, in a house that did not yet know it had been marked, a lamp flickered and went out on its own.
The evil eye had found its bond.
And love—false, forced, irreversible—had taken root.