CHAPTER 177: CHAPTER-177

Hibernation.

A stillness that blanketed the forests not just in snow but in breathless quiet. Even their scents had faded.

And just as Kaya had feared, she fell sick two weeks after the snowfall. That morning, when Kaya woke up, her head was groggy, as if fog had settled deep inside her skull. Her entire body ached, every limb heavy, like someone had beaten her in her sleep. Her throat burned with a sharp, itchy pain, and her nose was so stuffy she could barely breathe.

Cough, cough, cough.

Each cough scraped her throat raw, as though tiny blades were cutting from the inside. Her voice refused to come out—it was hoarse, broken. Just like the common cold she had seen others suffer before... but in her case, it hit harder. Maybe because she had never truly let herself get sick before. Maybe because, this time, there was no one else around to notice.

Kaya looked around, her vision blurred, her head pounding so much that even the thought of moving made her dizzy. But still, with clenched teeth and furrowed brows, she forced herself to shift her gaze, scanning the quiet corners of her small, cold house. Everything felt far away, like her body was sinking, slowly being swallowed by the fever.

Her throat screamed for relief—dry, itchy, as if scraped by gravel. She needed to drink something. Anything.

Her eyes landed on the small bunch of tulsi leaves placed neatly in a corner. And then, something tugged at her memory. A faint image... of how she used to make this same concoction for him. Wherever she went, no matter how far or how tired, if he was unwell, she brought him this. Always.

That thought gave her just enough strength to move.

Slowly, she lit the fire and placed the pot with water on it. Her hands trembled as she dropped in a pinch of salt, a bit of turmeric, and the tulsi leaves. She then picked up a thick piece of ginger, crushed it roughly, and added it to the mix. The scent of warmth filled the air as the water began to boil, turning into a rich, reddish-brown hue. It bubbled and danced, as though trying to pull her back into wakefulness.

Kaya just sat there, half-slumped, watching the steam rise.

Finally, she poured the liquid into a cup—the one with a chipped nose painted on it—and covered it with a lid. She brought it to her bed, held the cup close to her chest, and inhaled deeply. The scent of ginger, tulsi, and memory.

But her strength had run out.

She didn’t even drink it.

She just curled up, the warmth of the cup resting in her hand, and drifted back into sleep. Her mind blank. Her body too drained to think. That was all she could manage.

The fire crackled faintly in the corner, its warmth barely reaching her curled-up form. Outside, the snow had thickened, piling like heavy cotton over the earth, muting every sound. The house stood silent, save for the occasional creak of old wood adjusting to the cold.

Her breath was uneven, shallow. A slight flush stained her cheeks, but her fingers felt cold against the cup. Her body was burning inside, yet freezing on the outside—a cruel contrast that left her in limbo.

A cough tore through her again, dry and stubborn, scraping her throat raw. The cup tilted slightly in her grip, but she didn’t react. Her eyes remained half-lidded, dazed, caught between sleep and consciousness. Time became meaningless.

No one knocked. No one called.

In that stillness, her fever began to climb higher.

Her body twitched once—a small shiver. Then silence again.

If someone had walked in then, they might’ve thought she was just resting, tucked in with a warm drink by her side. But the truth sat heavier than that. Her strength was gone, her awareness slipping further with each passing hour.

The snow didn’t stop falling.

And Kaya didn’t wake.

Knovk knock

knock knock

In her deep sleep, it felt like someone was knocking on the door—loud, heavy, insistent. But Kaya barely stirred. Her eyes opened just a sliver, glanced weakly toward the door, then closed again. Her body refused to move.

She didn’t know how much time had passed.

Eventually, her eyelids fluttered open again, and though it still hurt a little, the pain had dulled. As consciousness slowly returned, she felt something damp resting on her forehead. Her hand moved weakly and touched it—a wet cloth.

Confused, she turned her head with effort.

Someone was there, sitting near the fire.

She sat up slightly, her movements slow, her limbs still aching. She removed the cloth from her head and blinked at the figure in front of her. Her eyes were still blurry, but the shape was familiar—the outline of a back she knew too well.

Brown wings stretched outward, still and quiet. The figure was tending something over the flames, his wings shifting slightly with the heat, catching the firelight.

A soft breath escaped her lips.

It was Veer.

Kaya watched him in silence, the warmth from the fire flickering across his frame, and for a brief moment, the ache in her body faded into the background.

Veer muttered under his breath, poking the fire with a stick, frustration etched into his voice.

"What the hell... why is it not burning well," he grumbled, shifting the half-burnt logs with a jab.

Kaya blinked slowly, watching him from behind. The soft rhythm of his voice, the way his wings flicked irritably with each poke of the stick—it grounded her, brought a strange comfort to her foggy mind.

She opened her mouth to say something, but her throat scratched raw, and only a soft croak came out.

Veer didn’t notice.

She tried again, swallowing the pain in her throat, and managed to whisper, "what..are..you doing here?".

He froze.

The stick halted mid-poke.

And slowly, he turned his head.

And just like always, he gave his cheeky greetings.

"Well, what can I do? If I hadn’t come, I might’ve had to collect your body after this damn winter ends."