Dragging her bag behind her, Vrishti stepped out of the station, blinking against the bright Dehradun sunlight. The crowd outside was a blur of motion — people calling out for taxis, buses honking, vendors shouting over one another.

She clutched her phone, scanning the area uncertainly. Where do I even go from here?

A little distance away, she spotted a bus stop. Relief flickered across her face. Pulling her bag along, she hurried toward it.

A conductor stood nearby, one earbud in, nodding his head to the beat of some old Bollywood song, completely lost in his own world.

Vrishti stepped closer and asked politely,
“Uncle, ye bus gomti hai?”

The conductor blinked, half-listening, then thought for a second and said, still bobbing his head,
“Haan haan…”
nodding vaguely.

Vrishti gave a small, uncertain smile and lifted her bag, placing one foot on the bus step.

Before she could climb in, the conductor added casually,
“Bus left right sidhe turn sab karti hai… ghumti bhi hai.”

Vrishti froze mid-step, confusion written all over her face.
Then realization hit her. She turned back toward him, hands on her hips.

“Uncle, earphones nikaaliye zara,” she said firmly.

The man blinked, pulled out his earphones, and looked at her properly for the first time.

Vrishti sighed and repeated, slower this time —
“Gomti Nagar ki bus?”

The conductor laughed, scratching his head.
“Acha! Aise bolo na, beta. Woh saamne se milegi.”

Vrishti smiled, half amused, half exasperated.
“Thank you!”

With that, she turned and headed toward the right stop, dragging her bag once more — this time with a little more purpose and a small, knowing grin on her face.

The conductor’s voice broke through the chaos of the bus stop.
“Iss bus ke baad seedha ek ghante baad aayegi dusri bus! Jaldi chado, jaldi!”

Vrishti’s eyes widened.
“One hour?” she muttered, alarm flashing across her face. Without a second thought, she grabbed her bag tighter and hurried onto the bus, nearly tripping on the last step as the driver started the engine.

She found a window seat, dropped her bag beside her, and let out a sigh of relief. First mission of the day — accomplished, she thought, half smiling at her own confusion.

.

.

Across the street, Kridha was scanning the nearby area, her eyes darting between signboards —
“CA Coaching,” “Math Tutorials,” “Commerce Classes.”
She had a small notebook in hand, scribbling down names and contact numbers for future reference. Balancing school with CA studies wouldn’t be easy, but Kridha was determined.

As she turned a corner, a soft whimper caught her attention.
A stray dog had wandered up to her, ribs visible beneath its fur, eyes hopeful.

Kridha knelt instantly, her expression melting. “Hey... you hungry?”

She looked around — a small medical store stood nearby, selling snacks at the counter. She bought a packet of biscuits, tore it open, and crouched down again, offering a few pieces.

The dog wagged its tail, munching eagerly. Kridha smiled, gently placing her palm on its head.
“Good boy,” she whispered, affection glowing in her eyes.

When the dog finished, she dusted off her hands, gave it one last fond look, and stood up. A small act of kindness, unnoticed by the world — but it warmed her heart as she walked away.

.

.

Meanwhile, at another exit of the station, Aadhya stormed out with her bag slung over her shoulder and irritation all over her face.

“Kuchh kha leti hoon,” she muttered to herself.
“Yahan aas-paas kya milta hai dekh leti hoon. Military school jaake chatpata khana milne ki ummeed rakhna toh bewakoofi hai.”

Her eyes scanned the street — and then she spotted it.
A chaat stall.

Her frown softened into a grin.
“Bach gayi,” she whispered, heading straight for it.

Aadhya: “Uncle, paani puri ek plate.”
Vendor: “Golgappe?”
Aadhya: “Haan haan, wahi!”

She watched eagerly as the vendor filled the puris, her mood lifting with every crunch.

Aadhya: “Dus ka sukha puri extra!”
Vendor: (smiling) “Jii”

Aadhya grinned, happily munching. “Thank you! Ab toh milna-jhulna hota rahega. Mast banaya hai! Waise subah kitne baje aate ho aur shaam ko kitne baje jaate ho?”

Vendor: “Kabhi bhi aa jao, mil jaayenge.”
Aadhya: “Arrey wah, badiya!”

Wiping her hands, she looked around. “Aur yahan sandwich kaha milega? Accha wala.”
Vendor: “Aage se right.”

Aadhya: “Perfect.”

A few minutes later, Aadhya was at a small toast-sandwich stall.
Aadhya: “Uncle, ek toast sandwich — beet, shimla mat daalna. Aur haan, mera face yaad rakhna, main regular aati rahungi.”
Vendor: “Theek hai, madam.”

When he handed it over, Aadhya took a big bite, her eyes lighting up.
“Teeekhi chatni mast banayi hai,” she said through a mouthful.
Vendor: “Dhanyawaad.”

Aadhya: “Yahan aas-paas dosa wala hai? Mysore dosa milta hai kya?”
Vendor: “Haan, paas hi hai.”
Aadhya: “Badiya jugad ho gaya! Lunch mein dosa fix.”

She checked her watch, then asked casually,
“Uncle, yahan se Army School kitni door hai?”
Vendor: “Do kilometer, bees minute walk.”
Aadhya: “Arrey waah!”

Aadhya smiled to herself. She actually loved long walks — half an hour of music, peace, and her own thoughts.

She put on her big headphones, adjusted her bag, and began walking down the quiet road — the beat of her playlist syncing with the rhythm of her steps. The chaos of the station faded behind her, replaced by the calm hum of her own company.

.

.

Bela Arrives at the Academy

Bela walked through the academy gates as if she were arriving home — because, in a sense, she was. This place had trained her; these corridors still remembered her footsteps. Guards straightened and saluted; she returned each salute with a crisp, automatic nod, then made her way to the office.

The Commissioner looked up from his desk the moment she entered and broke into a rare smile.
Commissioner: “Ah — Bela. Finally you’re here.”

Bela: “Jai Hind, Sir.”

Commissioner: “Jai Hind. Jai Hind. Your room is ready — and you’re early, as always. The old 4‑BHK you stayed in is free. The same big, luxurious one.”

Bela: She blinked. “Four bedrooms? Sir, this time I’m alone. If you want, I can move to something smaller.”

Commissioner: (shaking his head) “No, no. That room is yours. It has history — you, Rajan Sir, Radhika Ma’am and Dharam Sir used to share it. Nobody’s been in there since you four. The room is ready; the other three are expected soon.”

Bela: “Other three? Dharam Sir, Rajan Sir and Radhika Ma’am are coming?”

Commissioner: “No — their children. They’ll be joining the academy.”

Bela’s forehead creased. “Sir, how — why would they be staying in the staff building? Shouldn’t they be placed like any other cadet? like what other cadets will think hum yaha kehte hai ki yudh mai family history na background kam ka nhi hai fauji ka jazbba uski pehchan hai so what we are doing with these kids?

The Commissioner steepled his fingers, patient but firm. “Bela, we all know what you and I believe — that in war or service, family name should never be a shortcut. Rajan, Radhika and Dharam would be the first to say the same. This is not nepotism. These children will train with everyone else; in class and on the field they will face the same punishments and the same rewards. We won’t give them academic favors or special privileges. The only accommodation is their rooms — and that is for security.”

He leaned forward. “Their parents are lead members of this institution. The children have grown up around them; they know habits, schedules, allergies, private details — things an insider or an enemy could exploit. We have reason to suspect an information leak within the academy. These kids are vulnerable precisely because they carry knowledge only their parents would know. We must protect them, and we must observe them.”

The Commissioner gave a soft, tired smile. “I agree with you. That is why I’m putting them under you. No extra benefits, only one secure room each, and full transparency on the training floor. We have no spare rooms elsewhere, and frankly, the enemy has already been tailing them. Protection, yes — but also guidance. Under your watch they will learn discipline and capability. We will treat them like any other cadet when it matters most.”

He added, quietly, “And Bela — their rooms being here also makes practical sense. These parents are high‑value officers. If anything goes wrong, the children must be kept out of reach. You know these families; you know their strengths and weaknesses. If anyone can make sure these girls become capable and safe, it’s you.”

Bela absorbed the words. The argument still sat uneasily with her, but she knew the Commissioner wasn’t suggesting special treatment so much as controlled oversight. She straightened, shoulders squared.

Bela: “Understood, Sir. I’ll make sure they learn to protect themselves — and I’ll make sure the academy’s standards stay the same.”

Commissioner: “That’s what I wanted to hear, and Bela?”

She waited.

Commissioner: “If you need anything — resources, instructors, whatever — tell me. This responsibility is large, but you won’t do it alone.”

Bela nodded once. The room, the memories, the weight of expectation — it all settled on her like a familiar cloak. She turned toward the door, already making plans in her head for how to keep the girls safe and make soldiers of them.

.

.

Bela went into thhe room scanned her walls, there were many photo frames of themm together, there memories, bela removed all the frame and then went into the one hidden room whichh can be only opened by bela, rajan, radhhika, and dhharam, in that rooms thhey kept ll the belonginggs, other then thhat roomm none of the familia identical thhings werre out for the safety puurpose, bela don't wanted the childrens to know that shhe hass a different deep loved bond withh therre parents. she wanted to treat all of them just as a cadet as shhe is a trainer.

.

.

From Gate Number 2, Vrishti entered the campus, pulling her bag along the gravel path. The guards at the gate stood straight and saluted; she immediately returned the salute, a little shy but proud all the same.

The moment she stepped inside, her eyes widened — vast grounds stretched before her: training camps, tall academic buildings, the parade area gleaming under the morning sun. The air itself felt disciplined, alive with purpose.

But what caught her eye wasn’t the grandeur — it was the medical block at the far end of the campus, its white walls shining softly in the light. A small smile touched her lips as she walked toward it, curiosity bubbling inside her.

Inside, the faint smell of antiseptic mixed with a calm hum of quiet efficiency. She peeked into rooms — shelves stacked with supplies, stretchers lined neatly, a skeleton model in one corner. It felt familiar somehow… like she belonged here.

As a nurse walked past, Vrishti stopped her politely.
Vrishti: “Ma’am, agar kisi ko medical studies mein interest ho, toh kya hum free time mein yahan aake seekh sakte hain?”

The nurse turned with a kind smile.
Nurse: “Haan, kyu nahi? Infact, aap sabko ek subject milta hai — Mind Training — jo shaam 4 se 6 tak hota hai.”

Vrishti: “Haan, woh schedule mein dekha tha.”

Nurse: “Usmein aapko options milte hain — Gun Training, Strategy, Research, Mind Mapping, Medical, Cyber Security, Budget Planning, Team Management, aur kuch aur bhi. Do classes choose kar sakte ho — alternate days pe hoti hain.”

Vrishti: “Oh, great! Apply kahaan karu?”

Nurse: “Form mil jaayega office mein. Aur agar medical choose kiya, toh yahan humare saath practice aur observation dono kar paogi.”

Vrishti: (grinning) “Medical & Mind Mapping Perfect!”

As she walked out, she looked back at the building once more, her steps lighter.
Vrishti (to herself): “Chalo, ho gaya jugaad — Dr. Vrishti Agarwal, sounds good.”

She laughed softly, her heart thumping with excitement as she headed toward the office to collect the form.

.

.

Kridha entered through Gate Number 1, her eyes widening as she stepped inside the academy grounds. The sprawling campus unfolded before her — open parade fields on one side, training camps echoing with shouts and whistles on the other, and tall buildings lined in perfect military precision.

The air carried something different here — discipline, purpose, and the faint echo of countless footsteps that had walked before hers.

She adjusted her bag and followed the signs to the Main Office. Inside, cadets and staff moved briskly; the smell of fresh paper, ink, and polish filled the air. A woman at the counter smiled and handed her a form.

Receptionist: “New cadet?”
Kridha: (nodding) “Yes, ma’am.”

She found an empty desk, neatly laid out the form, and began filling in her details in her tidy handwriting. When she reached the section marked Mind Training Electives — “Maximum two courses” — she scanned the list thoughtfully.

Gun Training. Strategy. Research. Medical. Cyber Security. Budget Planning. Team Management.

Her pen paused at the last two.
They made sense — logical, structured, forward-thinking — exactly the kind of skills that would help her in both the academy and her dream of becoming a Chartered Accountant.

She smiled faintly and ticked Budget Planning and Team Management.
Numbers and people, she thought. That’s balance.

After submitting the form, the receptionist handed her a small key with a brass tag engraved with her name and block number 2218 Kridha thanked her and turned to leave — but something caught her eye.

A tall board stood near the hallway — “The Wings of Valor.”
It gleamed under the soft light, engraved with names of soldiers who had led the academy’s toughest missions.

At the very top, four names were etched in bold, golden letters:

Rajan Agarwal
Radhika Agarwal
Dharam Singh Rathore
Bela Sehgal

Kridha stopped. For a long moment, she just stood there. Her gaze lingered on the first name — Rajan Agarwal.
Her father.

A quiet pride filled her chest — not loud or boastful, but steady, like a flame that never flickered. She traced the air just above his name, not touching it, almost like a salute.

Kridha (softly, to herself): “You made it here… and I’m finally walking the same ground.”

Her lips curved into a smile — proud, emotional, and determined. She straightened her posture, tucked the key safely into her pocket, and walked away — her footsteps calm but confident.

For the first time since arriving, the academy didn’t feel new. It felt like home.

.

.

From Gate Number 4, Aadhya entered the academy, half dragging, half carrying her overloaded bag.

Aadhya: “Yeh bag bhi na — laptop, tablet, books, sab kuch andar bhar diya hai… uff, yeh toh gym session lag raha hai!”

She trudged forward, sweat forming on her forehead, until the canteen signboard came into view. Her face brightened slightly.

Inside, she scanned the menu board — and instantly frowned.

Aadhya: “As expected. Ghaas-phus everywhere. ‘Eat green, stay lean.’ Bhai hum cow thodi hain! Huuu.”

She squinted again, trying to find some hope.
Aadhya: “Quality toh acchi hogi for sure — Papa yahan ke head members mein se ek hain. And Papa loves food — perfect quality food. Okay fine, kuch nahi toh butter milk toh mil hi raha hai. Haan, dhupher ki chhaas mandatory hai!”

She went to the counter.
Aadhya: “Uncle, ek butter milk.”
Man: “Ok.”

While waiting, she leaned casually.
Aadhya: “Waise, aap log cheat day rakhte ho kya?”
Man: “Haan ji, mahine mein ek baar — pav bhaji, misal pav, pakode, aisa sab milta hai.”
Aadhya: “Yeh sab cheat day mein?”
Man: “Ji.”
Aadhya: (mock gasp) “Yeh toh main normally khati hoon!”

The man laughed; Aadhya didn’t. She dramatically wiped a tear.
Aadhya: “Cold drink tak nahi yahan… tragic.”

She took the glass of buttermilk, sighed, and took a long sip.
Aadhya: “At least this… this saves the day.”

Then, with renewed but reluctant energy, she dragged herself toward the main office, muttering under her breath. She filled out her admission form swiftly — the sections that mattered to her were clear.

Cyber Security and Strategy.
Her favorites. Her strength.

“Perfect combo,” she whispered, signing her name with a flourish.

.

.

After finishing, Aadhya headed for the residential block, still muttering complaints about the weight of her bag. She took Lift Number 1, leaned against the wall as it rose, humming faintly to her music.

At the same time —
From Lift Number 2, Vrishti stepped out, holding her medical form, eyes bright and curious.
And from Lift Number 3, Kridha arrived, her keys clinking softly in her hand, expression calm but tired.

The wide marble lobby was empty — except for them. Three girls walking from three different directions, all stopping in front of Room 2218.
Trio - 2218

They froze. They looked at each other.

Three key tags — same number.
Three sets of eyes — equally confused.

For a moment, no one spoke. The air hung still, heavy with surprise.

Then —

Aadhya’s jacket slipped from her shoulder and hit the floor with a soft thud.
Kridha’s notebook fell open, papers fluttering like startled birds.
Vrishti’s Pen tumbled from her hand and landed beside them.

They stared at each other. Wide-eyed. Shocked.

And then — almost perfectly in sync —

All Three (together): “TUMMM?!”

The echo bounced across the quiet lobby.

For a split second, silence again. Then, despite their exhaustion, despite their confusion — something in the moment felt strange and familiar all at once, like the universe had decided to play a small, deliberate joke.

Three different gates.
Three different dreams.
One room.

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That's it for today's chapter! ✨
If you enjoyed reading, don't forget to vote, share, and leave your thoughts in the comments — your support means the world and keeps the story alive.

Thank you for being part of this journey. 💙

— Author, Akshika Thakkar