Mission Forensic
Part 41: Returning to the Same Roof
Morning unfolded quietly in East Siang, the kind of quiet that felt earned.
Catherine’s bag rested by the door, zipped and waiting. The house smelled faintly of tea leaves and damp earth, the night’s rain still clinging to the air. Her father locked the front gate behind them and carried her suitcase to the car without comment. They drove through winding roads wrapped in mist, the hills retreating slowly behind them as the sky lightened from grey to pale blue.
Neither spoke for a while.
It wasn’t the silence of things left unsaid. It was the silence of familiarity—of knowing each other well enough not to fill space just because it existed.
After a long bend in the road, her father finally spoke.
“You don’t look like someone running away from home,” he said, eyes still on the road.
Catherine smiled softly. “I’m not.”
“Good,” he replied. “Home should never feel like something you escape.”
She rested her head briefly against the window, watching the trees blur past. “I think I’m just… carrying it with me.”
He nodded once, approving.
When they reached Guwahati Airport, the morning had fully arrived. The terminal buzzed with movement—rolling suitcases, announcements echoing through high ceilings, the smell of coffee and polished floors. Her father lifted her bag from the boot and adjusted the strap on her shoulder with careful hands.
“Choose the life that lets you breathe,” he said quietly, as if passing along a rule he had learned the hard way.
Catherine hugged him tightly, holding on a second longer than usual. She watched him walk away before turning toward the terminal, steadying herself before stepping inside.
Edward left his house later that morning, his mother insisting—firmly—that he take a small packet of snacks “in case Delhi forgets how food works.” His sister hovered nearby, leaning against the doorway with a knowing grin.
“Same airport as your girlfriend,” she said. “Very cinematic.”
“It’s a coincidence,” Edward replied, slipping his shoes on.
“Sure,” she said sweetly. “And I’m emotionally mature.”
His father walked him to the gate, placing a hand briefly on his shoulder. “Travel well,” he said. “And don’t forget who you are when work gets loud.”
Edward nodded. He understood more than he said.
Inside Guwahati Airport, Catherine paused near the security line, checking her boarding pass. Her phone buzzed.
Edward: Reached airport.
She frowned slightly, then typed back.
Catherine: Same.
A pause.
Edward: Which terminal?
She looked up instinctively, scanning the crowd—and then she saw him.
Not rushing. Not searching frantically. Just standing there with his bag slung over one shoulder, phone in hand, expression shifting from concentration to quiet disbelief.
Their eyes met.
For a heartbeat, neither moved.
Then Catherine smiled—the kind that reached her eyes without effort. Edward’s breath left him in a slow exhale he hadn’t realized he was holding. They walked toward each other, unhurried, like this had always been the plan.
“You,” she said simply.
“You,” he replied, just as quietly.
No dramatic reunion. No laughter breaking the moment. Just presence—solid, familiar, deeply reassuring.
They went through security together, sat side by side at the boarding gate, sharing a single cup of coffee because neither felt like buying two. Catherine teased him about arriving too early. Edward commented that her scarf smelled like rain and hills.
Their knees brushed under the row of chairs. Their fingers found each other without ceremony.
Boarding felt easier like this.
On the flight, Catherine fell asleep against his shoulder before they were fully airborne. Edward adjusted slightly so she wouldn’t wake, staring out the window as the land below shifted and folded away. For the first time in days, his thoughts were quiet.
Delhi greeted them with heat, horns, and urgency.
The airport doors slid open, releasing them into the familiar chaos—voices layered over one another, taxis honking, the sharp scent of dust and fuel. They exchanged a look that said we survived quieter places and laughed softly.
The cab ride home was companionable. Catherine leaned her head against the window; Edward rested his arm along the seat behind her. The city rushed past, unchanged and relentless.
When Edward unlocked the flat, Catherine stepped inside first.
The space greeted them with stillness—closed windows, faint traces of detergent, everything exactly where they’d left it. She set her bag down and opened the windows, letting air rush in. Edward followed, dropping his keys into the bowl by the door.
They stood there for a moment, just breathing.
Unpacking happened slowly. Catherine placed a folded scarf from home on the shelf. Edward lined up books he’d brought back. She offered him food from Arunachal. He made tea the way she liked it without being asked.
It felt easy.
That evening, they sat on the sofa, closer than before but without urgency. They talked about their homes—what they missed, what they hadn’t realized they needed. Edward admitted he hadn’t known how tired he’d been. Catherine admitted she’d forgotten how grounding quiet could be.
“I don’t want us far like that all the time,” she said gently.
“Neither do I,” he replied, just as honestly.
Night settled over Delhi with its usual persistence. The city hummed outside, but inside the flat there was calm. When they finally turned off the lights and lay side by side, neither reached for their phone. Neither felt the need to say more.
Delhi hadn’t changed.
But they had—just enough to return to each other with more care, more patience, and a deeper sense of home than either had carried before.
And under the same roof again, they slept—steady, unafraid, and quietly together.
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