The hills of Coorg were quiet that morning, wrapped in mist like secrets not yet spoken. Aanya sat beneath a teak tree, sketching the outline of a coffee blossom in her journal. Her thoughts drifted, but never far from Vihaan.
She hadn't expected him to come.
But when she returned to the homestay that afternoon, Lakshmi greeted her with a knowing smile. "You have a visitor. He looks like he's been arguing with the rain."
Vihaan stood on the veranda, soaked, breathless, holding a small duffel bag and a notebook that looked older than his grief.
"I didn't mean to intrude," he said. "I just… needed to see you."
Aanya didn't speak. She stepped aside, letting him in.
They sat across from each other, the silence thick with everything they hadn't said.
"I boxed up the letters," Vihaan began. "All of them. I didn't burn them. I couldn't. But I stopped writing to her."
Aanya nodded, eyes unreadable.
"I came here once with Meera," he continued. "We stayed in a place like this. She loved the rain. Said it made her feel infinite."
"And now?" Aanya asked.
Vihaan looked out at the hills. "Now it makes me feel small. But maybe that's okay."
She studied him. "Why did you come?"
"Because I realized I've been loving you like a man afraid to lose. Not like a man ready to stay."
Aanya's breath caught. She wanted to believe him. But belief, she knew, was earned—not gifted.
"I don't need promises," she said. "I need presence. I need someone who doesn't disappear when the past knocks."
Vihaan reached into his notebook and tore out a page. He handed it to her.
> "She is not the echo of someone else.
> She is the wind—new, wild, and mine to chase
> if I'm brave enough to run."
Aanya read it slowly. Then folded it, placed it in her journal beside the letter to herself.
"You're not forgiven," she said. "Not yet."
"I know."
"But you're here. And that's a start."
Outside, the wind picked up, rustling the trees like applause. The rain held off—for now.
And sometimes, healing begins not with answers, but with the courage to ask again.