Vinita Sharma Part 1: The Letters No One Reads The café sat at the edge of the road like a forgotten comma in a long sentence. Half hidden by a wild bougainvillaea vine and mist that never quite left, “Yesterday’s Brew” had no signboard—just a brass bell that rang softly when someone entered and the scent of cinnamon and stories hanging in the air. Maya Singh wiped the counter with the same slow grace she applied to most things in life now. Her hair was tied in a loose bun, a silver strand peeking defiantly. She wore a mustard cardigan…
