Tag Archives: Short Story

Short Story: The Red Maruti

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The ceiling fan creaked its familiar rhythm above the dining table as Ramesh spread the morning’s Deccan Herald across the wooden surface. The monsoon had finally retreated from Bangalore, leaving behind the kind of crisp October morning that made the city feel like a hill station. Through the open windows of their Jayanagar home, the sounds of the awakening neighbourhood drifted in: the milk vendor’s bicycle bell, the vegetable seller’s melodic calls, and somewhere in the distance, the gentle hum of a BMTC bus navigating the tree-lined streets.

“Appa, look at this,” Ramesh called to his father, Krishnamurthy, who was performing his morning surya namaskars in the small front yard. He pointed to a full-page advertisement that had caught his eye. A gleaming red car dominated the page, with bold letters proclaiming: “MARUTI 800 – A CAR FOR THE MIDDLE CLASS.”

Krishnamurthy finished his final salutation to the sun and walked over, adjusting his steel-rimmed glasses. At seventy-two, he moved with the measured dignity of a retired government clerk who had spent four decades navigating the bureaucratic corridors of Vidhana Soudha. “Twenty-eight thousand rupees,” he read aloud, his voice carrying the weight of consideration. “That’s more than your annual salary, kanna.”

“But Thatha, think about it,” piped up Kavitha, the younger of Ramesh’s two daughters. At twelve, she possessed an infectious enthusiasm that could convince anyone of anything. “No more waiting for buses in the rain. No more walking to the market when Amma’s back hurts.”

Her older sister Priya, sixteen and perpetually practical, looked up from her mathematics textbook. “And how exactly do we afford it? We can barely manage Kavitha’s school fees.”

Sunita emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her cotton saree. After seventeen years of marriage to Ramesh, she had learned to read the dreamy expression that crossed his face whenever he encountered something that represented progress, modernity, or simply the possibility of a better life for his family. This morning, that expression was unmistakable.

“You’re actually considering this, aren’t you?” she asked, settling beside him at the table.

Ramesh worked as an engineer at Bharat Electronics Limited, one of the few government jobs that paid well enough to support a joint family in middle-class comfort. Their house in 4th Block, Jayanagar, two bedrooms, a hall, a kitchen, and the luxury of a separate bathroom, represented years of careful saving and his father’s prudent investment in real estate when the area was still considered the outskirts of Bangalore.

“The waiting list is already six months long,” Ramesh said, continuing to study the advertisement. “If we don’t book now, it’ll be two years before we see one.”

Krishnamurthy settled into his chair with a thoughtful grunt. He had witnessed India’s transformation from British rule through independence, and now, at the tail end of the 1980s, he was watching his country embrace modernity with unprecedented enthusiasm. The Maruti factory in Gurgaon, the result of Indira Gandhi’s collaboration with Suzuki, represented something he had never imagined in his youth: mass-produced cars that ordinary families might actually afford.

“In my day,” he began, and Kavitha rolled her eyes affectionately, “a man was proud to own a bicycle. Your uncle Venkatesh saved for three years to buy his Hercules.”

“But times are changing, Appa,” Sunita said gently. “The children’s school is getting farther as the city grows. And my arthritis makes those bus rides increasingly difficult.”

Priya closed her textbook with a decisive snap. “If we’re going to dream, let’s dream properly. I’ve heard that the car comes in different colours. Red, white, blue…”

“Red,” Kavitha declared immediately. “It has to be red. Like the hibiscus flowers in Lalbagh.”

Over the next few weeks, the Maruti became the gravitational centre around which all family conversations orbited. Ramesh visited the showroom in Malleshwaram three times, each visit revealing new details that he would share over dinner. The car had a four-stroke engine, unlike the temperamental two-stroke scooters that dominated Bangalore’s roads. It could seat five people comfortably, well, four adults and one child. The fuel efficiency was extraordinary: twenty kilometres per litre.

Krishnamurthy accompanied his son on the fourth visit, partly out of curiosity and partly out of paternal duty to ensure that Ramesh wasn’t being swept away by sales rhetoric. The showroom itself was a revelation: gleaming white tiles, air conditioning, and salesmen in pressed shirts who spoke about “features” and “specifications” with the enthusiasm of cricket commentators.

“Sir, the Maruti 800 represents the future of Indian transportation,” the salesman explained to Krishnamurthy with respectful deference to his age. “Reliable, economical, and built with Japanese technology adapted for Indian conditions.”

Krishnamurthy ran his weathered hands over the smooth red surface of the display model. The paint was flawless, the chrome bumpers caught the showroom lights perfectly, and the interior smelled of new vinyl and possibility. Despite himself, he was impressed.

The family held a formal meeting that evening, seated in a circle on the cool terrazzo floor of their front room. This was how the Krishnamurthy household had always made important decisions, democratically, with even the youngest member having a voice.

“The mathematics are challenging but not impossible,” Ramesh began, consulting a notebook filled with calculations. “The down payment is eight thousand rupees. We have six thousand in savings, and I can borrow two thousand from the office cooperative society.”

“What about the monthly payments?” Priya asked. Her practical nature had blossomed into a genuine aptitude for numbers, much to her father’s pride.

“Four hundred and fifty rupees for four years. Plus insurance, registration, and maintenance.”

Sunita looked worried. “That’s nearly half your salary, Ramesh.”

“But think of what we’ll save,” Kavitha interjected. “No more auto-rickshaw fares. No more bus tickets. Amma, you could come to school for my annual day without worrying about the heat.”

Krishnamurthy had remained silent throughout this discussion, but now he cleared his throat. “There is another consideration,” he said slowly. “What will the neighbours think?”

This was not vanity speaking, but practical social wisdom. In the close-knit community of 4th Block Jayanagar, where everyone knew everyone else’s business, the arrival of a car would mark the family as either admirably prosperous or dangerously extravagant, depending on one’s perspective.

“Mrs. Lakshmi next door will probably faint,” Sunita said with a smile. “She still thinks our telephone is an unnecessary luxury.”

“But Mr. Rao across the street has been talking about buying a scooter,” Priya pointed out. “And the Sharmans in the corner house just bought a television.”

The decision, when it finally came, was typically understated. Krishnamurthy simply nodded and said, “If it will make life easier for my daughter-in-law and granddaughters, then we should proceed.”

The booking was made on a Tuesday morning in November. Ramesh took leave from work, dressed in his best white shirt and pressed trousers, and accompanied his father to the showroom. The formalities were surprisingly complex: forms to be filled, documents to be verified, and a waiting list number to be assigned: 2,847.

“Six to eight months for delivery,” the salesman explained. “Demand is very high, sir. The entire country wants a Maruti.”

The wait began.

Winter settled over Bangalore with its characteristic gentleness, cool mornings that warmed into pleasant afternoons, clear skies that revealed the distant Nandi Hills, and evenings perfect for long walks around the neighbourhood. The family’s anticipation grew in parallel with the passing months.

Kavitha developed the habit of walking past other Maruti cars whenever she spotted them on the street, studying their features and comparing them to her memory of the showroom model. She became an expert on the subtle differences between the various colours, the advantages of the deluxe model over the standard, and the proper pronunciation of “Suzuki.”

Priya, meanwhile, had begun learning to drive on her uncle Venkatesh’s scooter, arguing that someone in the family should be prepared to handle their new automobile. Her grandfather watched these lessons with a mixture of pride and terror, remembering when women in his family had rarely left the house unaccompanied, let alone operated motorised vehicles.

Sunita found herself calculating and recalculating the family budget, shifting small amounts between savings and expenses to ensure they could meet the monthly payments without compromising on education or healthcare. She also began scouting locations for a parking space, since their narrow house had no garage.

Ramesh threw himself into research with the dedication of an engineer. He borrowed books about automobile maintenance from the BEL library, studied traffic rules with the intensity of a law student, and began a notebook documenting every Maruti owner he met and their experiences with the car.

Spring arrived early in 1989, bringing with it the jasmine season and a telephone call that sent Kavitha racing through the house like a messenger from the gods.

“It’s ready! It’s ready! The showroom called, our car is ready!”

The delivery was scheduled for a Saturday morning, allowing the entire family to participate in this momentous occasion. They dressed as if for a wedding: Krishnamurthy in his silk dhoti and cream kurta, Sunita in her best Mysore silk saree, the girls in matching pavadai-davani sets that their grandmother had stitched specially for the occasion.

The showroom had transformed their transaction into a celebration. The red Maruti 800 sat in the centre of the display area, draped with marigold garlands and adorned with a small silver Ganesha idol on the dashboard. A photographer captured the moment as Ramesh accepted the keys from the showroom manager, his family gathered around him with expressions of joy and pride.

“Congratulations, sir,” the manager said formally. “May this car bring your family many years of happiness and safe travels.”

The drive home was a journey of barely three kilometres that felt like an odyssey. Ramesh gripped the steering wheel with both hands, maintaining a steady speed of twenty kilometres per hour while his passengers provided a constant stream of commentary.

“The engine is so quiet!” Sunita marvelled.

“Look how smoothly it turns!” Priya observed.

“Everyone is staring at us!” Kavitha announced with unabashed delight.

And indeed, their progress through Jayanagar resembled a slow-motion parade. Neighbours emerged from their houses to wave and smile. Children on bicycles rode alongside them for short distances. Even the traffic constable at the 4th Block intersection offered a salute as they passed.

Back home, a crowd had gathered. Mrs. Lakshmi from next door stood with her hands folded in namaste, genuinely happy for her neighbours despite her initial scepticism about their extravagant purchase. The Sharmans brought sweets. Mr. Rao from across the street walked around the car twice, examining it with the thoroughness of a prospective buyer.

“Beautiful colour,” he declared finally. “Very auspicious.”

Krishnamurthy performed a small puja, breaking a coconut near the front wheel and sprinkling the car with holy water from their morning prayers. It was a synthesis of ancient ritual and modern technology that perfectly captured the spirit of changing India.

The first family outing came the following day, a Sunday drive to Lalbagh Botanical Gardens. What had previously been a complex expedition involving bus connections and considerable walking was now a simple matter of driving to the parking area and walking directly to the glasshouse.

They spent the afternoon among the flower displays, but the real entertainment was watching other families admire their car in the parking lot. The red Maruti had developed a small court of admirers, children who pressed their noses against the windows, adults who walked around it appreciatively, and fellow car owners who struck up conversations with Ramesh about mileage and maintenance.

“It’s like owning a celebrity,” Sunita whispered to her husband as yet another stranger approached to ask about their driving experience.

The car transformed their daily routines in ways both large and small. Grocery shopping became a family affair, with weekend trips to Russell Market that would have been impossible with public transportation. Sunita’s visits to the temple expanded from the neighbourhood Ganesha temple to the grand Dodda Ganesha Temple in Basavanagudi. The girls’ social world expanded as drop-offs and pick-ups from friends’ houses became feasible.

Most importantly, the car seemed to expand their sense of possibility. When Kavitha’s school announced a field trip to Mysore, the family was able to offer to drive some of her classmates, turning the journey into an adventure rather than an expensive impossibility. When Priya received admission to the prestigious National College for her pre-university studies, the daily commute became manageable rather than prohibitive.

Six months after the delivery, Ramesh calculated that they had driven nearly eight thousand kilometres, trips to relatives in Mysore, weekend outings to Nandi Hills, and countless small journeys that had previously required careful planning and considerable expense.

“The car has paid for itself in saved bus fares and auto-rickshaw rides,” he announced at dinner one evening.

“No,” Krishnamurthy corrected gently. “The car has paid for itself in possibilities we never imagined.”

As 1989 drew to a close, the red Maruti had become as much a part of the family as any human member. It had its own personality, a slight reluctance to start on particularly cold mornings, a preference for being parked in the shade, and a tendency to attract admiring glances wherever it went.

On New Year’s Eve, as fireworks lit up the Bangalore sky and the family stood in their front yard reflecting on the year that had passed, Kavitha made an observation that would be repeated in family stories for years to come.

“You know,” she said, leaning against the warm red hood of their car, “I think this is the year we stopped just dreaming about the future and started driving toward it.”

The adults smiled at her earnestness, but privately, each of them acknowledged the truth in her words. The little red Maruti had done more than provide transportation—it had carried them into a new version of themselves, a family unafraid to embrace change and confident enough to believe that better days lay ahead.

In the distance, a church bell tolled midnight, welcoming not just a new year but a new decade. The 1990s stretched ahead, full of promise and possibility, and the Krishnamurthy family was ready for the journey.

Short Story: Echoes of Memory

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The first drops of monsoon rain struck the weathered stone steps of the Rajabai Clock Tower, and Meera Sharma felt her world tilt sideways.

She pressed her palm against the Gothic archway, the same way she had done… when? The memory flickered at the edge of her consciousness like candlelight in the wind. Her assignment from the Heritage Preservation Society had been simple: photograph the colonial-era buildings in the Fort district before the rains made the work impossible. But standing here, watching the storm clouds gather over Mumbai’s skyline, she felt an inexplicable dread settling in her chest.

Run, Kamala. Run before they find you.

The whisper came from nowhere and everywhere at once. Meera spun around, but the courtyard was empty except for a security guard dozing under a canvas awning. She’d never been called Kamala in her life.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Arjun, her research partner: Meeting cancelled. Strange dreams again. We need to talk.

Arjun Malhotra had joined the heritage project six months ago, bringing with him an encyclopedic knowledge of Mumbai’s independence-era history that often startled their supervisors. He was brilliant, dedicated, and lately, deeply troubled by nightmares he wouldn’t discuss. Meera had found herself drawn to his quiet intensity, the way he seemed to carry some invisible weight.

Thunder cracked overhead, and suddenly she wasn’t standing in 2024 anymore.

The year was 1924, and Kamala Devi’s sari clung to her legs as she ran through the narrow lanes of Girgaon. The monsoon had started early that year, turning the unpaved roads into rivers of mud. In her hand, she clutched a leather portfolio containing documents that could change everything, proof that someone within their freedom-fighting group was feeding information to the British authorities.

Someone she trusted. Someone she loved.

Behind her, footsteps splashed through the puddles. Getting closer.

“Kamala!” Vikram’s voice echoed off the tenement walls. “Please, let me explain!”

But there was nothing to explain. She had seen the money changing hands in the shadows of Crawford Market, watched him pass along the names of their comrades who had subsequently disappeared into the British prisons. How many freedom fighters had died because of his betrayal?

She turned into a dead-end alley, her heart hammering against her ribs. The old warehouse loomed before her, its broken windows like dead eyes. Nowhere left to run.

“Kamala.” Vikram appeared at the mouth of the alley, his white kurta soaked with rain and mud. In the lightning’s flash, she saw tears streaming down his face. “They threatened my mother. My sisters. I had no choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” she whispered, backing against the warehouse wall. “You chose their lives over our cause. Over our people’s freedom.”

“I choose you,” he said, stepping closer. Something metallic glinted in his hand. “Come with me. We can leave Mumbai tonight. Start over somewhere else.”

“With blood on our hands? With the screams of tortured patriots in our ears?” Kamala pressed the portfolio against her chest. “Never.”

The knife entered her stomach like a cold whisper. She looked down in shock at the spreading crimson stain on her cream-colored sari, then up into Vikram’s anguished eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed as she slid down the wall. “I’m so, so sorry, my love.”

Kamala’s last coherent thought was not of pain or fear, but of a fierce, burning determination: somehow, someday, there would be justice.

Meera gasped, finding herself on her knees in the courtyard, rain soaking through her jeans and cotton shirt. The security guard was shaking her shoulder, speaking rapidly in Hindi.

“I’m fine,” she managed, struggling to her feet. But she wasn’t fine. The memories, Kamala’s memories, felt more real than her own childhood. She could still taste the copper of blood in her mouth, still feel the betrayal cutting deeper than any blade.

Her phone rang. Arjun.

“Meera?” His voice was shaky. “Something’s happening to me. I keep remembering things that never happened. A woman named Kamala. I think… I think I killed her.”

The phone slipped from her numb fingers, clattering on the wet stones.

Three hours later, they sat across from each other in a small café in Colaba, two cups of chai growing cold between them. Arjun looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks, his usually immaculate appearance dishevelled. Dark circles shadowed his eyes.

“It started three months ago,” he said, staring at his hands. “Dreams at first. Then waking visions. I thought I was having a breakdown until…” He looked up at her. “Until I saw you at the heritage site and recognised your face. Not Meera’s face. Kamala’s.”

“You killed me,” Meera said simply. The words should have filled her with rage, but instead she felt only a deep, bone-weary sadness. “In 1924. In an alley behind a warehouse in Girgaon.”

Arjun flinched as if she’d slapped him. “The British were going to kill my family. My mother, my two younger sisters. The officer, Captain Morrison, showed me photographs of their bodies, other informants’ families who had refused to cooperate. He said it would look like a robbery gone wrong.”

“So you gave them our people instead.”

“Yes.” The word came out as a whisper. “And when you found out…”

“I tried to expose you. To save others from the same fate.”

They sat in silence as the rain hammered against the café’s windows. Around them, Mumbai’s life continued its relentless pace: street vendors calling their wares, traffic honking, people rushing through the downpour with newspapers held over their heads.

“Why now?” Meera asked finally. “Why are we remembering now?”

Arjun reached into his laptop bag and pulled out a manila folder. “I’ve been researching it. Cross-referencing historical records with our… experiences. I think it’s because of the construction project.”

He spread photocopied documents across the table. Municipal records, architectural surveys, and newspaper clippings from the 1920s. Meera’s breath caught as she recognised a grainy photograph of the warehouse where Kamala had died.

“They’re tearing it down next month,” Arjun continued. Building a shopping complex. But first, they had to do a structural survey of the foundation. They found something.”

He handed her a recent newspaper clipping. The headline read: “MYSTERIOUS REMAINS DISCOVERED IN GIRGAON CONSTRUCTION SITE.”

“The construction crew found bones,” Arjun said. Wrapped in fabric. The forensics team is calling it a cold case from the independence era.”

Meera’s hands trembled as she held the article. “They found her. They found me.”

“The remains are in the police evidence locker. They’re trying to identify them, but the records from that period…” He shrugged helplessly. “Most were destroyed or lost.”

“But we know,” Meera said. “We know who she was. Who killed her? Where it happened.”

“What are you suggesting?”

She looked directly into his eyes, the same dark eyes that had filled with tears as Kamala died. “I’m suggesting we give her the justice she never got. We solve her murder.”

“Meera, I can’t…”

“Vikram’s name isn’t on any of the historical records as a freedom fighter. In this life, you’re a historian with an impeccable reputation. The police would listen to you.”

Arjun was quiet for a long moment, processing. “You want me to confess to a murder I committed in a previous life.”

“I want you to help me prove what happened to Kamala Devi. The British records still exist. Captain Morrison’s files were transferred to the national archives after independence. If we can prove she was murdered for her political activities, she could finally be recognised as a martyr.”

“And what about… this life? Us?”

The question hung in the air between them. In her recovered memories, Meera could feel the love Kamala had felt for Vikram before the betrayal, a love so deep it made the betrayal cut even deeper. Looking at him now, she could sense the echo of that connection, complicated by knowledge and pain.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I know that Kamala loved Vikram until the very end, even as he killed her. I know that you’ve spent ninety years carrying guilt that followed you into this lifetime. Maybe that’s punishment enough.”

Over the next week, they worked together like the scholars they were, piecing together the historical puzzle of Kamala’s death. Arjun used his connections to access the British colonial archives, while Meera interviewed elderly residents of Girgaon whose grandparents might have remembered the freedom fighting activities in their neighbourhood.

The picture that emerged was exactly as their memories suggested. Kamala Devi had been a courier for the independence movement, carrying messages between different revolutionary cells. Several freedom fighters had been arrested in July 1924, all betrayed by someone with inside knowledge. Kamala had disappeared shortly after, presumed to have fled the city.

Captain Morrison’s files, when they finally gained access to them, contained payment records to an informant identified only as “Subject V.” The amounts and dates matched perfectly with Arjun’s memories.

But it was Meera who found the most crucial piece of evidence.

“Look at this,” she said, spreading a hand-drawn map across Arjun’s kitchen table. She’d found it tucked into a notebook that had belonged to her grandmother, a notebook she’d never bothered to read carefully until now. “My grandmother was Kamala’s cousin. She kept some of Kamala’s belongings after she disappeared.”

The map showed the streets of Girgaon, with several locations marked in Kamala’s careful handwriting. Safe houses, meeting points, dead drops for messages. And in the corner, written in a different ink, was a note: “A betrayed me. Evidence hidden in Warehouse 7. Tell no one until the British are gone.”

“She documented everything,” Arjun breathed. “Even after she discovered my betrayal, she was still trying to protect the cause.”

They took their evidence to Inspector Rashid Khan, a senior officer known for his interest in historical cold cases. Khan listened with growing fascination as they laid out their research, carefully omitting any mention of recovered memories or reincarnation.

“Remarkable work,” Khan said, examining the documents. “If even half of this is accurate, Kamala Devi deserves recognition as a freedom fighter. But you understand, solving a hundred-year-old murder case…”

“The remains,” Meera said. “If we could search the area where they were found, there might be more evidence. Kamala’s note mentions hiding something in the warehouse.”

Khan was sceptical, but their research was thorough enough to warrant a controlled excavation of the site. Three days later, they stood in the rubble of the old warehouse as forensic archaeologists carefully sifted through a century of accumulated debris.

“Here,” called Dr. Priya Nair, the lead archaeologist. “Metal box, wrapped in oilcloth.”

Inside the box was a collection of documents that made Meera’s heart race. Letters in Kamala’s handwriting, describing the informant’s activities. Photographs of money changing hands. And most damning of all, a partial confession in Vikram’s handwriting from 1924, apparently started but never completed.

“My name is Vikram Malhotra,” the confession began, “and I have betrayed everything I believed in…”

Standing in the ruins where Kamala had died, Arjun read his own words from a century ago with tears streaming down his face.

“It was never supposed to happen,” he said. “I kept trying to find another way, to protect both my family and the movement. But Morrison kept pushing, demanding more names, more information. When Kamala found out…”

“You panicked,” Meera finished.

“I couldn’t let her expose me. My sisters were so young, my mother had already lost my father to British bullets. But afterwards…” He gestured to the incomplete confession. “I couldn’t live with what I’d done. I tried to write it all down, to turn myself in, but I was too much of a coward.”

“What happened to your family?”

“Morrison killed them anyway, three months later. Said I’d outlived my usefulness. I fled Bombay that night and spent the rest of that lifetime running from what I’d done.”

The confession, combined with the other evidence, was enough to officially classify Kamala Devi as a martyred freedom fighter. Her name would be added to the memorial wall at the Gateway of India, alongside other recognised patriots. The story made national news: “Lost Freedom Fighter Finally Gets Recognition After Century-Long Mystery Solved.”

But for Meera and Arjun, the real resolution came later, in the quiet of his apartment as they sat looking through Kamala’s recovered letters.

“She wrote about you, you know,” Meera said, holding up a letter dated just weeks before the betrayal. “About how much she loved you, how proud she was to fight alongside you for India’s freedom.”

“Don’t,” Arjun whispered.

“Vikram has such a pure heart,” Meera read aloud. “Sometimes I think he cares too much, loves too deeply. But that’s what will make us strong when independence comes. Love for our families, our land, our future.”

“She was wrong about me.”

“Was she?” Meera set down the letter and looked at him. “You made a terrible choice out of love for your family. It was wrong, but it wasn’t evil. And you’ve spent two lifetimes trying to atone for it.”

“How can you forgive me? How can you even look at me?”

Meera was quiet for a long moment, feeling the weight of Kamala’s memories alongside her own feelings. “Because,” she said finally, “I think that’s why we both came back. Not for revenge, but for understanding. For the chance to heal something that was broken.”

“And us? In this lifetime?”

She reached across the space between them and took his hand. “I don’t know what we are to each other now. We’re not Kamala and Vikram from 1924, we’re Meera and Arjun from 2025. We have different choices to make.”

“I want to try,” he said. “If you’ll let me. I want to see who we can become when we’re not carrying the weight of old wounds.”

Six months later, Meera stood once again in the Fort district, but this time in front of the newly unveiled memorial plaque for Kamala Devi. Arjun stood beside her, and she could feel the peace that had settled over both of them like a blessing.

“Do you still dream about her?” she asked.

“Sometimes. But they’re not nightmares anymore. She’s at peace.”

“Good.” Meera squeezed his hand. “She deserves that.”

As they walked away from the memorial, leaving flowers and a quiet prayer behind, neither of them looked back. The past had been honoured, justice had been served, and the future, their future, stretched ahead like an unwritten page.

Sometimes, Meera thought, the greatest stories weren’t about the wounds we carry, but about our courage to heal them. And sometimes, love was patient enough to wait not just years, but lifetimes, for the chance to begin again.

Behind them, rain began to fall on the memorial plaque, washing the stone clean and carrying their whispered prayers out into the vast, forgiving sea.

Short Story: The Lonavala Getaway

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The train screeched to a halt at Lonavala station, and Arjun practically bounced out of his seat. “Finally! Fresh air!” he declared dramatically, throwing his arms wide as if he could already breathe in the hill station’s crisp atmosphere through the train’s grimy windows.

“Calm down, Mountain Man,” laughed Priya, adjusting her oversized sunglasses. “We haven’t even gotten off yet.”

Their group of six had been planning this weekend trip for months. There was Arjun, the eternal optimist and self-appointed trip organiser; Priya, sharp-tongued but fiercely loyal; Rohit, quiet and thoughtful, who’d been harboring feelings for Priya since their first year; Kavya, bubbly and Instagram-obsessed; Vikram, the skeptic who complained about everything but never missed a hangout; and Neha, practical and level-headed, often the voice of reason.

“I still think we should have booked a proper hotel,” Vikram grumbled, hefting his designer backpack. “This Airbnb thing sounds sketchy.“

“It’s not sketchy, it’s authentic,” Arjun countered. “The listing said it’s a colonial-era bungalow with ‘old-world charm.’ How cool is that?”

“Old-world charm usually means no Wi-Fi and questionable plumbing,” Vikram muttered.

Kavya, who had been frantically taking selfies since they’d entered the Western Ghats, looked up from her phone. “Guys, I’m getting no signal. Like, zero bars. How am I supposed to post our trip?”

“That’s the point!” Arjun said. “Digital detox! Quality time! Bonding!”

“I’m already feeling detoxed,” Neha said dryly. “Mainly of my will to live.”

After a bumpy auto-rickshaw ride through winding roads flanked by misty hills and cascading waterfalls, they arrived at their destination. The bungalow stood at the end of a narrow dirt path, surrounded by dense trees that seemed to lean in conspiratorially. It was exactly as advertised: a sprawling colonial structure with weathered white walls, green shutters, and a wraparound veranda that had seen better decades.

“It looks like something out of a horror movie,” Rohit observed quietly.

“Or a romantic period drama,” Priya added, and Rohit’s heart did a little skip.

“Why not both?” Kavya said cheerfully, finally finding one tiny bar of signal and immediately snapping photos.

The caretaker, an elderly man named Raman uncle, greeted them with a mixture of warmth and what seemed like concern. He was lean and weathered, with kind eyes that seemed to hold secrets.

“Welcome, welcome,” he said, jangling a large set of keys. “You are the college group, yes? From Mumbai?”

“That’s us!” Arjun beamed. “Ready for the best weekend ever!”

Raman uncle’s smile faltered slightly. “Ah, yes. Well, let me show you the house. There are just a few… guidelines.”

As he led them through the musty interior, pointing out the kitchen, bathrooms, and bedrooms, his tone grew more serious. “Please, do not go to the third floor. It is not safe, old floorboards, you understand. And after sunset, it is better to stay inside. The forest can be… confusing at night.”

“Confusing how?” Neha asked, her practical mind immediately catching the euphemism.

“Animals,” Raman uncle said quickly. “Leopards, sometimes. And the paths, they all look the same in the dark.”

Vikram shot Arjun a pointed look. “Leopards. Great choice, organiser.”

“Leopards are scared of humans,” Arjun said dismissively. “And look at this place! It’s perfect!“

After Raman uncle left, promising to return the next evening, the group settled in. They distributed themselves across the four bedrooms on the second floor, with Arjun and Vikram sharing one, Priya and Kavya sharing another, and Rohit and Neha taking the remaining two rooms.

The first evening passed pleasantly enough. They cooked a chaotic dinner together, with Priya demonstrating her surprising culinary skills. At the same time, Kavya documented every dish for her Instagram story (which she couldn’t post due to the poor signal, leading to much dramatic sighing). Rohit found excuses to help Priya in the kitchen, and she didn’t seem to mind, which gave him hope.

“This is nice,” Vikram admitted grudgingly as they sat on the veranda after dinner, sharing bottles of beer they’d brought from Mumbai. “Peaceful.“

“See? I told you…” Arjun began, but was interrupted by a strange sound from above.

Thump. Drag. Thump. Drag.

Everyone looked up at the ceiling.

“What was that?” Kavya whispered.

“Probably just the wind,” Neha said, but her voice lacked conviction.

“Wind doesn’t make dragging sounds,” Rohit pointed out.

Thump. Drag. Thump. Drag.

The sound came again, clearly footsteps, but dragging, as if someone was pulling something heavy across the floor above them.

“That’s the third floor,” Priya said quietly. “The one we’re not supposed to go to.”

“Maybe it’s just settling,” Arjun suggested, though his usual confidence seemed shaken. “Old houses make weird noises.”

Vikram stood up abruptly. “I’m going to check.”

“Are you insane?” Kavya hissed. “Raman uncle specifically said not to go up there!”

“Raman uncle also said there were leopards, and I haven’t seen any paw prints. I bet he just doesn’t want us messing with his storage or something.”

Before anyone could stop him, Vikram had stalked inside and up the creaking staircase. The others followed reluctantly, clustering at the bottom of the stairs leading to the third floor.

“Vikram?” Arjun called. “Find anything?”

There was a long pause, then Vikram’s voice, strangely strained: “Guys? You need to see this.”

They climbed the narrow staircase to find Vikram standing in a doorway, his face pale. Beyond him was a room that looked like it belonged in a different century, or a different world entirely.

The room was filled with old photographs, hundreds of them, covering every wall. But these weren’t ordinary family photos. They showed the same group of six young people, over and over again, in different poses, different clothes, but always the same faces. Their faces.

“What the hell?” Priya breathed.

Kavya grabbed Neha’s arm. “Those are us. Those are literally us.”

In photo after photo, they could see themselves, laughing on the veranda downstairs, cooking in the kitchen, sitting around the very same table where they’d just eaten dinner. The photos looked old, yellowed at the edges, as if they’d been taken decades ago.

“This is impossible,” Rohit said, stepping closer to examine one of the images. “These photos… they look vintage, but that’s definitely me.”

“And me,” Arjun whispered, pointing to a photo showing him with his arm around a laughing Priya. “But I’ve never seen this picture before in my life.”

Neha, ever practical, was examining the room more carefully. “Look at this,” she said, pointing to a corner where dozens of diaries were stacked. She opened one at random and began reading aloud:

“Day 1: Arrived at the bungalow with the group. Arjun is as enthusiastic as ever, Vikram is complaining, and Kavya can’t stop taking photos. Rohit keeps looking at Priya when he thinks no one is watching. Some things never change.”

“What does that mean, ‘some things never change’?” Kavya asked, her voice small.

Neha flipped to another entry: “‘Day 15: We tried to leave today, but the path just led us back to the house. Raman uncle won’t explain what’s happening. He just smiles sadly and tells us to be patient.”

“Day 15?” Arjun repeated. “We’ve only been here one day.”

“Keep reading,” Priya urged, though her voice was shaking.

“Day 43: Rohit finally told Priya how he feels. She said she’d known all along and had been waiting for him to find the courage. Even trapped here, there’s still room for happiness.”

Rohit and Priya looked at each other, and despite the surreal horror of the situation, something passed between them.

“Day 78: We think we understand now. We’ve been here before. Many times. The photos prove it. But each time, we forget when we arrive. We only start remembering as the cycle nears its end.”

“Cycle?” Vikram’s voice cracked. “What cycle?”

Neha flipped ahead frantically. “Day 127: This is my last entry. Tomorrow we’ll try to leave again, and we’ll wake up in Mumbai with no memory of this place, planning another trip to Lonavala. But maybe this time, if we’re lucky, someone will read these diaries before it’s too late. If you’re reading this, you are us, and we are you. Find Raman uncle. Ask him about the curse. Ask him about the English sahib who died here in 1923. Ask him how to break free.”

The room fell silent except for the sound of their collective breathing.

“This is insane,” Vikram said finally. “Someone’s playing an elaborate prank. Those photos are doctored, the diaries are fake…“

He was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. They all turned to see Raman uncle ascending slowly, his face grave.

“You found the room,” he said simply.

“What is this?” Arjun demanded, his voice higher than usual. “What’s happening to us?”

Raman uncle sighed deeply. “It is a long story. There was an Englishman, James Worthington, who built this house in 1922. He fell in love with a local woman, Kamala, but her family forbade the match. In his anger and heartbreak, he… he did something terrible. He turned to dark practices, tried to bind her spirit to this place so she could never leave him.”

“And?” Priya prompted when he paused.

“The ritual went wrong. Instead of binding just her, he created a trap for love itself. Young couples, groups of friends with love between them, they come here, and the house feeds on their connections, their emotions. It keeps them in a loop, living the same experiences over and over.”

“That’s impossible,” Neha said, but her voice lacked conviction.

“How many times?” Rohit asked quietly. “How many times have we been here?“

Raman uncle’s eyes were sad. “This is your forty-seventh visit.”

The number hit them like a physical blow.

“Forty-seven times,” Kavya whispered. “We’ve lived through this forty-seven times?”

“But we don’t remember,” Priya said, as if trying to make sense of it. “We go back to Mumbai and plan the trip again, with no memory of what happened here.”

“The house lets you leave when the cycle completes,” Raman uncle explained. “But it also makes you forget, ensuring you’ll return. Only in the final days do the memories begin to surface.”

“So, how do we break it?” Arjun asked. “There has to be a way.”

Raman uncle looked at them for a long moment. “The curse was born from love turned selfish, possessive. It can only be broken by love freely given, without expectation of return.“

“What does that mean?” Vikram demanded.

But before Raman uncle could answer, something extraordinary happened. Despite the supernatural horror of their situation, despite being trapped in a cosmic loop for who knows how long, Rohit stepped forward and took Priya’s hand.

“I need to tell you something,” he said, his voice steady despite everything. “I’ve been in love with you since the first year. Maybe that’s why we keep coming back here, I don’t know. But if we’re trapped, if this is all we have, I want you to know.”

Priya looked at him, tears in her eyes. “I know,” she said softly. “I’ve always known. And I’ve been waiting for you to be brave enough to say it.”

They kissed then, simple and sweet, and something in the house seemed to shudder.

“Well, this is awkward,” Kavya said, but she was smiling through her tears. “Here I thought the scariest part would be the supernatural imprisonment.”

“Actually,” Neha said thoughtfully, “I think they might be onto something. Raman uncle, when you said love freely given…”

“The curse feeds on selfish love, possessive love,” Raman uncle confirmed. “But love that expects nothing in return, love that wishes only happiness for the other person…”

Arjun suddenly laughed, and they all turned to stare at him. “You know what’s funny? In forty-seven loops, we’ve probably become the best of friends anyone could ask for. We’ve shared everything, been through everything together, even if we don’t remember it.”

“We have,” Vikram agreed, and for once, he wasn’t complaining. “And honestly? Even if we’re trapped, even if this is all insane, I can’t think of five people I’d rather be trapped with.”

One by one, they moved closer together, forming a circle on the dusty floor of the photograph room.

“I love you all,” Kavya said simply. “Not romantically, well, except you two are adorable, but I love our friendship. I love that Arjun always believes the best in everything, that Vikram pretends to be cynical but cares more than anyone, that Neha always keeps us grounded, that Priya makes us all braver, and that Rohit sees beauty in everything.”

“I love that we found each other,” Neha added. “In all the chaos of college, in Mumbai, in life, we found each other.”

“And I love that even here, even in this impossible situation, we’re still us,” Priya said. “We’re still taking care of each other.”

The house began to tremble. The photographs on the walls started to fade, their edges curling as if being consumed by invisible flames.

“It’s working,” Raman uncle said, his voice filled with wonder. “In forty-seven cycles, you never… You were always trying to escape, to get away. You never chose to stay together.”

“Because we never remembered how much we meant to each other,” Rohit realised.

The trembling intensified, and a warm light began to fill the room. One by one, the photographs crumbled to dust, decades of trapped moments finally released.

“What happens now?” Arjun asked.

“Now you choose,” Raman uncle said. “You can leave, return to Mumbai, and continue your lives with the full memory of what happened here. The curse is broken, you’ll never be drawn back.”

“Or?” Priya prompted.

Raman uncle smiled. “Or you acknowledge what you’ve learned in forty-seven lifetimes of friendship. That some bonds are stronger than any magic.”

They looked at each other, these six friends who had been through more together than any group should ever have to endure, even if they couldn’t remember most of it.

“We’re graduating next year anyway,” Kavya pointed out. “We were all worried about staying in touch, starting careers, growing apart.”

“Can’t really grow apart from people you’ve been cosmically bonded to,” Vikram said with a grin.

“So we stay together?” Neha asked. “Always?”

“Not trapped,” Rohit clarified, squeezing Priya’s hand. “But connected. By choice.”

“I can’t think of anything I’d want more,” Arjun said honestly.

The light grew brighter, and they felt themselves being lifted, not by any supernatural force, but by the simple power of choosing love, friendship, romance, and loyalty over fear.

When the light faded, they were standing on the veranda of the bungalow, but it looked different now. Cleaner, brighter, as if decades of sadness had been washed away. The sun was rising over the Western Ghats, painting the sky in shades of gold and pink.

“So,” Kavya said, pulling out her phone and finding, miraculously, full signal bars. “Anyone want to extend this trip a few more days? I have a feeling we’ve got some catching up to do.”

They laughed, and the sound echoed across the hills, free and clear and full of promise.

Later, much later, as they sat around the kitchen table sharing stories and filling in gaps that memory couldn’t quite bridge, Raman uncle appeared in the doorway. But he looked different now, younger, lighter, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

“Thank you,” he said simply. “I have been the caretaker here for sixty years, watching groups come and go, trapped in their cycles. You are the first to choose love over escape.”

“What will you do now?” Neha asked.

He smiled. “Return to my own life, I think. I have grandchildren I have not seen in many years.”

As he prepared to leave, Arjun called out to him. “Raman uncle, one more question. In forty-seven cycles, did we ever… did Rohit and Priya ever…?”

“Every time,” the old man said with a twinkle in his eye. “Love always finds a way, beta. Even in the worst circumstances.”

And as their laughter filled the morning air, echoing across the hills of Lonavala, six friends discovered that some stories don’t end, they just begin again, deeper and truer than before.

The house stood peaceful in the morning light, no longer a prison but a place where love had learned to set itself free.

Short Story: Kites and Mangoes

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9 August, Singapore

“You don’t sound Indian,” the boy had said at the kopitiam when Kavya ordered her teh c kosong. He’d grinned, like it was a compliment.

Kavya had smiled tightly, thanked him, and walked away. She was used to it.

Born and raised in Singapore, she knew the National Day Parade theme song by heart and could switch between English, Tamil, and a sprinkle of Mandarin like a linguistic gymnast. But somewhere between “pure” Singaporean and “actual” Indian, she felt like she belonged everywhere and nowhere at once.

She’d grown up visiting temples on weekends, dancing Bharatanatyam at community festivals, and eating prata after tuition class. But whenever she visited Little India, there was always someone who’d ask, “You from here or there?” and she never had a clear answer.

This year, she wanted something more. Something beyond tidy traditions and carefully curated heritage trails. She booked a solo trip to India, to Madurai, the city where her grandmother had been born.

“Why now?” Amma had asked, frowning over her glasses.

“I want to feel where I come from,” Kavya replied. “I want to be in India on Independence Day.”

Her mother had sighed but said nothing. That night, she slipped an old photograph into Kavya’s bag: a black-and-white picture of a young woman in a half-saree standing in front of the Meenakshi Temple.

11 August, Madurai, India

The heat struck like a drumbeat. Everything in Madurai pulsed: the honks, the temple bells, and the jasmine sellers with their hypnotic chants.

Kavya stayed in a modest homestay just off a street flanked by banana trees and walls stained with old film posters. The house had creaky wooden shutters, a courtyard with a mango tree, and an old woman who insisted Kavya eat second helpings of everything.

The rhythm of life was different here. Slower, louder, more chaotic, and strangely comforting. Kavya spent her mornings walking to temples and her afternoons scribbling in a notebook she carried everywhere. She didn’t know what she was writing—just thoughts, feelings, and fragments of herself.

12 August, Madurai

On her second morning, Kavya heard a ruckus in the alley. She stepped out and saw a girl, barefoot, dust-streaked, and laughing, chasing a runaway calf down the narrow lane. The girl caught it by the rope, scolded it gently in Tamil, and looked up to see Kavya watching.

“You look like you’re from here but also… not,” the girl said, grinning.

Kavya laughed. “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that. I’m Singaporean. My grandma was from here.”

“Then you’re one of us,” the girl declared. “I’m Meenal. Come. We’re painting flags today. For August 15. Want to help?“

Kavya blinked. “Me? I don’t really paint…”

“That’s okay. You’ll learn. We’re not picky about strokes, only spirit.“

And just like that, she was pulled into a swirling circle of colours, cloth, and conversation.

13 August, Madurai

They sat under a neem tree, painting tiny Indian flags on scraps of cloth. Children swirled around them, cheeks smeared with green and orange.

“What’s National Day like in Singapore?” Meenal asked, dabbing white onto a fabric square.

“There’s a huge parade. Fireworks. Everyone wears red and white. But… it feels curated. Clean.”

“You miss mess?” Meenal teased.

“I miss… rawness. My identity feels like a fusion dish sometimes. Indian, but diluted. Singaporean, but never quite full-blooded.“

Meenal paused and dipped her brush into green. “Being Indian isn’t about passports. It’s about stories. Smells. The way your body remembers mangoes even when your tongue forgets.”

Kavya looked at her. “You make it sound like poetry.“

“It is. We’re both translations of something old and beautiful.”

They sat in silence for a while. A small girl brought them sliced raw mango with chilli salt. Kavya bit into it, eyes watering from the tang.

“This,” she said, “tastes like my grandmother’s kitchen. I didn’t even know I remembered.”

Meenal smiled. “See? That’s the thing about home. It sneaks up on you.”

14 August, Madurai

That evening, Meenal took her to a rooftop near the temple.

“We come here every year to light paper lanterns,” she said. “Some say they carry prayers. Others say they chase away the shadows.”

As the sky dimmed, they lit small lanterns and watched them rise. Kavya stood quietly, fingers curled around her wrist.

“My parents wanted me to study engineering. I chose literature instead,” Meenal said suddenly. “They said it was a waste. But I like words. Words are how I remember who I am.”

Kavya looked at her. “You’re lucky you even knew. I feel like I’m always translating what I want, who I am, who people think I should be.”

“Maybe identity isn’t about choosing one version. Maybe it’s about collecting them, like shells. Some smooth, some cracked. But all real.”

15 August, Madurai

The morning was thick with saffron skies and fried vadai. Children marched barefoot with tricolour kites and hand-painted flags. The air buzzed with pride, promise, and powdered colours.

Meenal tugged Kavya to the rooftop.

“Here. Yours.“

Kavya took the spool and launched her kite into the air.

It wobbled at first, then caught the wind. Higher, stronger.

Below, loudspeakers blared patriotic songs. Kavya felt the strings burn gently against her fingers.

“You know,” she said softly, “In Singapore, we sing ‘One People, One Nation, One Singapore.’ But I never understood how to be one thing.”

Meenal grinned. “Maybe we aren’t meant to be one thing. Maybe we’re meant to be many.”

They watched the sky fill with colour. Saffron, white, green, and somewhere, Kavya imagined, red and white too.

“I came here to find roots,” she said. “But I think I’ve found mirrors.”

One Week Later, Back in Singapore

Back in Singapore, the sky was cleaner, the traffic neater, and the air-conditioning colder.

On her desk sat a jar of Madurai earth, still smelling faintly of turmeric and dust.

On the wall: two flags. Side by side. Equal in colour, different in rhythm.

She opened her journal and flipped to the back.

A new note from Meenal had arrived by post.

Dear Kavya,

Happy National Day (again)! Mango season starts in March. Your kite is still flying, by the way.

We saved the spot on the rooftop for you.

Kavya smiled and picked up her pen.

Dear Meenal,

Tell the mangoes I’m coming. And this time, I’m bringing chilli salt.

Short Story: Postcards to a Stranger

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The library had always been her quiet rebellion.

While the world outside pressed with schedules, subway noise, and small talk she didn’t have energy for, the library stood untouched, shelved in silence, dust, and possibility.

Meera came every Sunday. Always at ten. Always with a thermos of masala chai tucked into her oversized tote, alongside whatever book she’d half-finished the week before.

It started as a whim.

She found the old postcard wedged between the pages of a poetry collection, ‘Love and Other Small Wars’. The card was blank, except for a faded red border and a tiny, hand-painted sunflower in one corner. The space where a stamp should’ve been was empty. The address lines had never been used.

She stared at it for a long moment. Then pulled out a pen.

Hello, stranger.

I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe because we’ve both reached for the same book, perhaps that makes us kindred in some tiny, bookish way.

If you’re reading this, I hope you’re okay. The world can feel a bit too much sometimes, can’t it? But right now, this moment, here in the library, this quiet, ink-scented bubble, it feels like enough.

Be gentle with yourself.

—M

She slid the postcard back into the book, tucked between pages 48 and 49, and returned it to the shelf.

It was silly. It was nothing. But it stayed with her the rest of the day like the warmth of the sun on skin.

Two weeks passed. Meera almost forgot about the card.

Then, on a damp April morning, she returned to her Sunday haunt and pulled out another poetry book, this time from the bottom shelf.

A postcard fell into her lap.

It was the same one. But there was new handwriting below hers.

Dear M,

I never expected to find a note like yours in a library book. It stopped me in my tracks, in a good way. Thank you.

I read that book after a very long day. I wasn’t sure what I needed. Turned out, it was your words. So… thank you for the kindness you didn’t know you gave.

I guess this makes me S.

P.S. I also love this part of the library. It always smells like rain and paperbacks.

Meera stared at the postcard, her fingers trembling.

“Someone replied,” she whispered, half in disbelief.

She didn’t know who S was. But suddenly, the silence of the library felt fuller.

She replied quickly:

S,
 You caught me off guard. In the best possible way.
 Can we make this a thing? A secret mailbox through books?

She placed the card into The Book Thief, tucked neatly between chapters. And waited.

Over the next two months, their postcard exchange became a ritual.

They never met. They didn’t ask for names or details. Only initials. Only thoughts.

They spoke about books, rainy days, favourite quotes, and small fears. One card from S read:

Sometimes, I think the loneliest part of my day is when I leave the library. Like I’ve borrowed someone else’s silence and now I have to give it back.

Another from Meera:

I saw an old couple holding hands near the bus stop today. It made my heart ache, in a beautiful sort of way. Is it strange to long for something you’ve never had?

They began to confide more.

One day, Meera wrote:

What would happen if we met? Would we break the spell? Would we recognise each other?

S replied:

I think I’d recognise you. Maybe not by face, but by pause. You write with quiet spaces. I think you live with them, too.

They didn’t need faces. Just words.

In late May, Meera left a card that read:

S,
 There’s something deliciously heartbreaking about caring for someone you’ve never seen. Is that what this is? Are we writing versions of each other that don’t exist? And yet, it feels real. Like a tide, I can’t hold back.

Sometimes I find myself watching the door, wondering if you’ll walk in. Would I even know it was you? Would you?

The reply came the next week:

M,
 I read your card five times. I don’t have a clever response. Only this: I’ve started showing up early, hoping to see who reaches for the books I’ve just left behind.

I think I want to meet you. But I’m scared that the magic might break if we do.

Still, maybe some magic is worth risking.

Would you ever want to meet me, too?

Meera’s breath caught in her throat. Her fingers trembled.

Yes.
 Let’s meet next Sunday. Same place. 10 a.m. I’ll be in the poetry aisle. Yellow scarf. Nervous heart.

Sunday arrived, wrapped in golden light.

Meera stood in the poetry aisle, yellow scarf around her neck, pretending to read.

Her heart thudded.

At 10:11 a.m., he appeared.

He was tall, in a dark blue sweater, with soft brown eyes and ink-stained fingers. He looked nervous.

He was holding a postcard.

Their eyes met.

He smiled.

“Hi,” he said softly. “I’m S. Samir.”

“Hi,” Meera breathed. “I’m M. Meera.”

They laughed, a gentle, awkward laugh.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” he said.

“I almost didn’t,” she replied. “But then I thought… if you were anything like your words, I had to meet you.”

He touched the postcard in his hand.

“You changed my Sundays,” he said.

They sat together on the carpet, backs against the bookshelf.

“What now?” she asked.

He smiled.

“Now we write a new chapter. Together.”

A year passed.

They still left postcards for each other. Sometimes in books. Sometimes in coat pockets.

You smiled in your sleep last night. I hope you were dreaming of something silly and soft. Like marshmallows. Or me. —S

I wasn’t dreaming. I was remembering our first postcard. And hoping we’d never stop writing our story. —M

They didn’t.

Two years later, the city library hosted *”Voices Between the Pages.”

Among the displays: a series of postcards, gently ageing, gently loved.

The first read:

Hello, stranger…

No names were given. But two visitors returned every Sunday, wandering shelves, sometimes laughing softly, slipping a new card into a random book…

For the next stranger to find.

Because stories, like love, are meant to be passed on.