It was a Sunday afternoon, the kind that hung heavy with the scent of cardamom and the promise of rain.
Ratanpur’s streets were unusually quiet, as if the town itself had decided to take a nap. A slow breeze tiptoed through the narrow alleys, brushing past old wooden windows and ruffling drying sarees hung like flags of forgotten stories.
Inside Nazm, Ayaan dipped his pen into a small glass inkwell. His fingers, long and gentle, moved like a musician tuning his instrument. The nib met the ivory paper, and the sound — a soft scratch of ink on parchment — was the only thing that dared interrupt the silence.
He wasn’t writing for anyone. He rarely did. But on days like these, when the sky threatened to pour and the town slipped into a daze, Ayaan wrote like his heart depended on it.
The bell above the door jingled, a soft, surprised sound.
He didn’t look up immediately.
“Give me a moment,” he said, voice calm, still finishing the last swirl of the word ishq on the page.
“I wasn’t in a hurry,” came a voice — light, curious, wrapped in mischief.
He looked up.
She stood in the doorway, a vibrant contrast to the muted browns and greys of his world. Her dupatta — lemon yellow — fluttered gently in the breeze. Bangles clinked as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes scanned the shelves, then found him.
“I didn’t know calligraphy could sound so… beautiful,” she said, stepping in.
He blinked. Not many people spoke when they entered Nazm. Fewer still noticed the sound of ink.
“Ishita,” she added casually, like it wasn’t the beginning of something.
“Ayaan,” he replied, standing now.
Their eyes met — and something unfamiliar stirred in the quiet air between them.
Outside, the first raindrop hit the ground.
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