Whispers Beneath the Rain
The rain had returned to the city like a forgotten melody—soft, persistent, and aching with memory. Aanya stood beneath the rusted canopy of the old bookstore, her fingers tracing the spine of a novel she’d never read, waiting for someone she wasn’t sure would come.
Across the street, Vihaan watched her from the café window, his coffee untouched, heart pacing like a violin string stretched too tight. It had been three years since their last conversation, two since the last letter, and one since he’d promised never to write again.
But promises made in pain rarely survive the poetry of longing.
He stepped out, the rain soaking his collar, and walked toward her—not with urgency, but with the quiet resolve of someone who had rehearsed this moment in dreams.
Aanya turned. Their eyes met. No words. Just the sound of rain, and the silence that only lovers understand.
She smiled—not the kind that forgives, but the kind that remembers. He reached for her hand, and for the first time in years, the city felt warm again.