Aarushi Sen
The road curved like a tired snake up the hillside, each turn opening to glimpses of mist rolling down the pines, and Mira Kapoor sat in the back seat of the rattling jeep clutching her bag as if it might steady her heart, wondering for the hundredth time if she was making a mistake by coming here at all, leaving behind the familiar noise of Delhi, the polished glass office towers, the people who used to smile at her in corridors but no longer looked her in the eye after she had broken off her engagement with Rohan, the man who had been both her colleague and her almost-husband until she realised the silence in their relationship had grown louder than their words. The jeep bumped over stones and the driver, an old man with a wiry frame and a cap pulled low over his eyes, muttered something about the rains coming early this year, and she looked out at the sky that was already gathering clouds heavy as secrets, and thought maybe she had timed her escape badly. Yet here she was, a suitcase of clothes, a laptop she wasn’t sure she’d even open, and the fragile hope that the project she had taken up would keep her from sinking deeper into the hollow that had opened inside her. The bungalow was waiting, abandoned, crumbling, a colonial relic her cousin had stumbled upon and insisted she take charge of restoring. “Turn it into a homestay, Mira, make it something people will want to visit,” he had said, as if it were so easy to rebuild not just walls but a life. The jeep finally pulled up before a wrought-iron gate rusted to the colour of dried blood, and beyond it stood the bungalow, its roof tiles slipping, ivy crawling greedily over the verandah, windows staring back at her like blind eyes. She paid the driver, thanked him with a smile she did not feel, and stepped through the gate that groaned in protest, her shoes sinking into the moss-softened ground, her breath catching at the scent of wet earth and pine resin, something raw and unfamiliar compared to the exhaust-stained air of the city. The house seemed to sigh as she approached, as if recognising another lost soul had come to disturb its sleep. She pushed open the heavy wooden door, its hinges shrieking, and dust rose in lazy swirls in the dim light slanting through cracked glass panes. Inside, the air smelled of old paper, damp wood, and secrets too long buried. She walked from room to room, tracing her fingers along peeling wallpaper, imagining the echo of footsteps from another century, wondering who had last sat by the fireplace, who had left the half-broken lamp in the corner, who had carved initials into the banister of the staircase. She could feel time pressing against her skin. The caretaker, a middle-aged woman named Kamala who arrived shortly after Mira unlocked the door, greeted her with a hesitant smile and told her in broken Hindi that she came every few weeks to check the place, sweep a little, keep the roof from collapsing altogether. She spoke of the house with a kind of wary respect, as though it were alive, and Mira found herself listening closely. “They say the sahib who lived here had a secret,” Kamala whispered as they stood in the kitchen where cobwebs hung like lace, “something hidden in these walls. People don’t stay here long, the nights are not quiet.” Mira only nodded, not sure whether to laugh or shiver. That evening, after Kamala left, Mira sat on the verandah with a thermos of tea she had brought, watching the valley fall into dusk, the sky turning bruised purple, the first stars trembling into view. The silence was vast, broken only by the chirp of crickets and the distant barking of a dog. For the first time in months she felt her breathing slow, the tightness in her chest loosening. She did not know if she had come here to rebuild the bungalow or to rebuild herself, but she hoped the two might be the same. As she sat there, she noticed a figure walking down the path by the pines, tall, carrying a satchel slung across his shoulder, his stride unhurried. He glanced up at the verandah and their eyes met for a brief second, and Mira felt a spark of something unnameable, sharp and unsettling, before he looked away and continued down towards the village. She wondered who he was, whether he lived nearby, whether fate in this mountain air would allow their paths to cross again. That night she lay in a narrow bed with creaking springs, listening to the house groan with the wind, and somewhere between wakefulness and dream she thought she heard whispers in the walls, faint as breath, as though the bungalow was telling her its story, urging her to listen, to stay.
The morning light was thin and pale when Mira stepped out onto the verandah, the mist clinging stubbornly to the pines, the air sharp enough to sting her lungs with every breath, and for a moment she felt she had woken in another world where time moved differently and the city was nothing but a bad dream dissolving in the valley. She had barely finished her tea when the sound of footsteps on gravel made her look up, and there he was again, the same man she had glimpsed last evening, walking with a purposeful stride up towards the gate as though he belonged here more than the house itself. He carried a bundle of notebooks under his arm, his jacket worn at the elbows, his hair untidy in a way that seemed deliberate, and when his eyes met hers there was no spark this time, only the steady calm of someone who had long grown accustomed to the mountains. “You must be the new tenant,” he said, his voice low, clipped, with a faint trace of the local accent, and Mira bristled at the word tenant, as if she were merely squatting in a place that would never be hers. “I’m not a tenant, I’m restoring this bungalow,” she replied, trying to sound firmer than she felt, and he gave a quick, dismissive laugh, the kind that stung more than open ridicule. “Restoring? That will take more than paint and city dreams, madam.” He turned as if to leave but then paused, adjusted the strap of his satchel, and added, “Arjun Mehra. I teach at the village school. Most people around here know me.” Mira wanted to retort that she did not, and did not need to, but instead she simply nodded, forcing politeness into her smile. “Mira Kapoor. Architect.” He studied her for a moment, as though weighing her words, and then said, “If you’re serious about this house, you should know the walls are older than you think. They hide things.” With that, he walked away, leaving her standing at the verandah railing gripping her mug too tightly, irritation mingling with a flicker of curiosity she could not quite suppress. The rest of the day was spent in practical matters: meeting the mason from the village who spoke little and gestured a lot, arranging with Kamala to bring in supplies, sketching quick plans on paper that smudged easily in the damp air, and all the while Mira felt Arjun’s words hovering like a shadow at the edge of her mind. In the late afternoon, when she went upstairs to examine the cracked beams, she noticed a loose panel in the wall near the landing. It was small, almost invisible beneath layers of dust and cobwebs, but when she pressed it with her palm it shifted slightly, revealing a gap. Her pulse quickened, and she fetched a flashlight, pried it open further, and there inside the cavity was a folded piece of yellowed paper brittle with age. She unfolded it carefully and saw a letter written in spidery handwriting, the ink faded but legible: a declaration of love addressed to someone named Margaret, signed only with an initial, “R.” Mira’s heart thudded, the weight of history suddenly intimate, pressing against her present. Who were they, what had become of them, and why had the letter been hidden in the wall? She tucked it into her notebook, feeling as though she had been given a secret to guard. That evening, she carried the letter down to the verandah, reading it again and again by lantern light, the words aching with longing, and she found herself imagining Margaret’s face, the anonymous R’s voice, the forbidden romance that must have unfolded within these very walls. She was so absorbed that she did not hear Arjun approach until he spoke. “I told you the walls hide things.” Startled, she looked up to see him standing by the gate, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “How do you know about this?” she asked, her voice sharper than intended, and he shrugged. “Everyone knows stories. Letters, journals, whispers carried down. The house has been silent for years but silence does not mean emptiness.” He stepped closer, and though Mira wanted to send him away, some instinct made her hold out the paper. He read quickly, then handed it back. “So you found one of them. There are more.” She frowned. “More?” He nodded. “If you care to look. But be warned—sometimes the past clings too tightly. It doesn’t let you go.” His words lingered long after he left, and when Mira finally went to bed she dreamt of corridors filled with unseen footsteps, letters slipping like leaves from the walls, and a man’s voice whispering Margaret in the dark.
The next morning dawned with the sky split between a reluctant sun and a tide of darkening clouds, the air thick with the promise of rain, and Mira found herself pacing the verandah with her notebook, trying to sketch ideas for the restoration though her mind kept drifting back to the brittle letter she had tucked safely between its pages. She wanted to focus on plasterwork and roofing angles but the words of R to Margaret echoed louder than any measurement, as if the house itself wanted her to choose memory over mortar. She had just started drawing the outline of a skylight when Arjun appeared again, this time carrying a basket of books, and without waiting for permission he strode inside, looked around at the mess of broken chairs and collapsed shelves, and said, “You’ll never keep tourists here if you don’t respect what the house already is.” Mira stiffened. “I do respect it. That’s why I’m restoring it, not tearing it down.” He set the basket on the table with a thud, his expression infuriatingly calm. “Restoration isn’t about erasing history with new paint. It’s about listening. Do you even know who lived here?” She swallowed her irritation. “I know enough. A British officer, perhaps, with his family. Colonial walls, colonial dust. That’s what I’m here to transform.” His laugh was quick, sharp, and for a second she hated the sound of it. “Transform, yes, that’s the word. Outsiders always want to transform what they don’t understand.” Mira bristled. “I’m not an outsider. I’m working here, living here.” He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, and said quietly, “You’ll always be an outsider until you let the hills change you instead of trying to change them.” She opened her mouth to retort but found no words strong enough. Instead she reached into her notebook, pulled out the fragile letter, and held it up. “Then tell me what this is. Tell me what you know about R and Margaret.” For the first time his composure shifted. His gaze softened, almost pained, and he stepped forward, careful, as though the paper might burn him. “They say there was a soldier, Robert, who fell in love with a local girl named Megha, but the British records call her Margaret. They hid it, of course. His regiment transferred him before they could run away. Some say she waited here until the house swallowed her silence. Others say she left a child in the valley. No one knows.” Mira’s fingers trembled as she folded the letter back. “So it’s not just gossip. It happened.” Arjun nodded once. “History breathes in these hills, Mira. It clings like mist.” The way he said her name startled her, almost tender beneath the criticism, and she turned quickly away, pretending to study her sketches. “Well, whether it clings or not, I intend to finish what I started,” she said. “This house will live again, and people will come to stay, not to chase ghosts but to find beauty.” He sighed, shaking his head, but there was a faint glimmer in his eyes, as if her stubbornness amused him. “Beauty, yes. But don’t forget—the ghosts will come too.” With that he left, the sound of his footsteps fading down the path. Mira sank into a chair, anger and intrigue tangling within her. She had come here to escape heartbreak, not to be drawn into another man’s riddles, and yet she felt a pull stronger than pride, a current dragging her deeper into both the house and the man who seemed determined to guard it. That night the rain finally broke, hammering the roof, streaming down the glass, and as Mira lay awake listening to the storm, she swore she heard voices between the thunder, a man calling Margaret, a woman’s laughter cut short, and somewhere in the darkness the echo of Arjun’s warning: sometimes the past clings too tightly. She pulled the blanket tighter and told herself it was only the wind, only imagination, but her heart refused to believe.
The storm raged through the night and by dawn the hills were drenched, the pines dripping like tired sentinels, the ground slick with mud that clung to Mira’s shoes as she stepped outside to breathe in the cold air heavy with petrichor, her mind still restless from dreams that felt too much like echoes of real voices. She returned inside to check for leaks and damages and as she climbed the stairs her eyes caught the same loose panel near the landing, only now the wood had shifted further from the swelling damp, revealing a deeper hollow than before. Heart quickening, she knelt and pushed her fingers in, drawing out a small tin box tarnished with rust, its lid resisting until she pried it open with trembling hands. Inside lay another folded letter and a tiny pressed flower brittle but still faintly red as if clinging to life across a century. Mira unfolded the paper carefully, her breath catching at the words written in the same spidery hand: My dearest, if the world forbids us, let the walls guard us. Do not fear the silence. I will return to you before the spring. The letter was unsigned this time but she knew it was R again, and the tenderness in the lines pierced through her like something meant not only for Margaret but for her own broken self. She pressed the paper to her chest and felt the weight of both history and longing. By afternoon she could no longer bear the questions clawing inside her, so despite her irritation with him she found herself walking down the narrow path to the village school, asking children who pointed her towards the back where Arjun was stacking old books beneath a leaking roof. He looked up in surprise, then in something like resignation. “You found another,” he said simply, as if it had been inevitable. Mira held the letter out. “Tell me the rest of their story. You clearly know more than you pretend.” He read in silence, his face unreadable, and finally said, “Some stories don’t end neatly. Some are still alive. Letters surface, rumors shift, but no one knows if Robert ever returned. Some say he died in war. Some say he was forbidden. Megha—Margaret—vanished. That’s all.” Mira shook her head, refusing the unfinished. “But there must be something more. Why hide the letters? Why leave them behind?” He met her gaze, steady, unflinching. “Maybe because some loves are not meant to be resolved. They remain unfinished so others can carry them forward.” His words unsettled her, stirring emotions she did not want to name. “I came here to rebuild a house, not to chase ghosts,” she snapped, more to herself than him. Arjun smiled faintly, the kind of smile that disarmed without effort. “Sometimes chasing ghosts is another way of rebuilding.” They stood in silence, rain dripping from the eaves, the children’s laughter echoing faintly from the courtyard, and in that moment Mira felt both anger and a strange pull towards this man who infuriated her yet seemed to understand more than she did about the very walls she lived within. When she turned to leave he called after her, softer this time. “Mira—be careful. The past here is not gentle.” That night back in the bungalow she lit a lantern and placed both letters on the table side by side, her fingers tracing the faded ink, the pressed flower fragile beneath glass. She wondered what it meant to guard another’s secret, to inherit another’s longing, and why Arjun’s voice lingered in her mind long after she had blown out the flame.
The days slipped into a rhythm Mira had not expected, mornings filled with dust and hammering as masons began repairing the cracked walls under her instructions, afternoons when she sketched new layouts by the verandah while clouds gathered over the valley, evenings when she walked the creaking corridors alone listening for whispers that seemed to rise with the dusk, and in between all of it the letters lay like anchors on her desk reminding her that the house was more than just wood and stone. She tried to ignore the pull of the past but every time she glanced at the brittle paper she thought of Arjun’s calm eyes and the way he spoke of memory as though it were alive. On the third day after finding the tin box she returned to the wall near the staircase with a hammer, determined to test the rest of the panels, and after an hour of prying she uncovered a second cavity holding scraps of parchment so damaged most words had bled away, yet one line still remained clear: The hills will remember us even if the world forgets. She carried the scraps down as if they were treasure, and though she resisted the impulse, she found herself walking towards the school again. This time Arjun was waiting outside as though he had known she would come, leaning against the low stone wall with a look that mixed amusement and something gentler. “Another?” he asked, and she held out the parchment without a word. He studied it with reverence before nodding. “You see now. The house isn’t giving you relics, Mira. It’s testing you. It wants to know if you will keep listening.” She sighed, exasperated and strangely moved all at once. “You talk about this house like it’s a person.” He tilted his head. “Maybe it is. Some places breathe. Some carry love longer than people do.” She did not know how to answer so she changed the subject, asking about his students, his life in the village, and for the first time he spoke openly, telling her about the small library he had built from discarded books, the poetry he sometimes read to the children under the trees, the fiancée he had lost in an accident years ago whose absence had left him anchored to the hills because he could not bear to leave the place where her memory still walked. Mira listened quietly, the ache of his loss resonating with her own recent escape, and in the hush that followed she realised their silences were beginning to fit together, not heavy but companionable. That evening Arjun walked with her back to the bungalow, carrying her basket of supplies, and when they reached the verandah he paused, looking out at the valley where twilight had begun to shimmer like silver mist. “You’re different from most who come here,” he said softly. “They want photographs, quick beauty, then they leave. You’re listening, even when you deny it.” She felt warmth spread through her chest though she kept her voice steady. “Maybe I don’t have a choice. The house doesn’t let me ignore it.” His smile was small, almost sad. “Neither do the hills.” They stood side by side until the first stars appeared, and for the first time since arriving Mira felt a quiet she could trust, not the hollow silence of heartbreak but the stillness that comes before something new. That night she laid the letters carefully beside her bed as if their presence kept the storm of loneliness away, and as she drifted to sleep she thought of Arjun’s voice and the way it lingered like the mountain wind, carrying both sorrow and the promise of beginnings.
The work on the bungalow grew louder with each passing day, hammers striking rhythm against the walls, sawdust settling like pale snow, voices of laborers drifting up the slope, and Mira found herself in the center of it all with her notebook filled with revised sketches, her hair pulled back loosely, her hands smudged with chalk dust as if the house itself had claimed her. Yet amid the noise she discovered an unexpected rhythm with Arjun who began appearing more often, sometimes with baskets of fruit from the market, sometimes with books for the children she saw trailing curiously after the masons, and sometimes with nothing but his quiet presence which annoyed her at first yet soon began to feel like part of the work itself. He had a way of noticing details she overlooked—the grain of the wood that revealed water damage, the slope of the roof that threatened to collect rain, the old beams that could be reinforced instead of replaced—and though she wanted to insist she knew better, she found herself grudgingly admitting he was right more often than she liked. Their arguments softened, turning into teasing, the sharpness dissolving into the kind of exchanges that left her smiling long after he had gone. One afternoon as they cleared debris from the library room, Arjun lifted a rotted shelf and beneath it lay another small hollow, carefully carved into the wall, containing fragments of paper and what looked like the cover of a leather-bound book. Mira’s hands shook as she picked it up, brushing dust from the faded surface to reveal the remnants of a diary too damaged to open fully but still holding within it scraps of legible handwriting. She and Arjun sat cross-legged on the dusty floor reading what they could: lines about meetings by the river, about promises beneath cedar trees, about love that demanded secrecy but refused to die. Mira felt her throat tighten as the words blurred with the shadows of her own choices, her own longing for something she could not yet name. “It was a diary,” she whispered, her fingers tracing the ink. “Margaret—or Megha—was writing her heart into these walls.” Arjun nodded, his expression solemn yet tender. “And now it’s finding its way back to you.” She looked at him sharply, searching for irony, but found none. Instead she saw only his quiet conviction, the weight of a man who knew grief yet still carried hope. Their eyes held longer than either intended and Mira felt her pulse stumble, a warmth unfurling that had nothing to do with history and everything to do with the man sitting too close on the wooden floor. She looked away quickly, gathering the fragments, forcing her voice steady. “We should preserve these properly. I’ll call someone from the archive department in town.” Arjun smiled faintly, almost amused. “Always the architect, always the planner. Some things don’t belong in archives, Mira. Some things belong in memory.” She wanted to argue but the words caught in her throat, trapped between admiration and irritation. That evening they worked side by side arranging the broken shelves, their shoulders brushing more often than accident, their laughter rising when the hammer slipped or the wood splintered, and when the day faded into dusk Mira realised she had not thought of her broken engagement once. Instead her thoughts were filled with the slope of Arjun’s smile, the steadiness of his hands, and the strange comfort of knowing she was no longer alone in the echoing house. That night as she lay in bed the hills outside shrouded in mist and silence, Mira dreamed not of voices from the past but of cedar trees whispering in the wind, and when she woke her first thought was of Arjun, the man who carried both sorrow and strength, and who was slowly becoming the only part of this hill station she could not imagine leaving behind.
The days stretched into a rhythm that no longer felt like exile but like belonging, the air alive with the smell of fresh wood and damp earth, the masons slowly piecing the house back together as Mira found herself drifting between sketches and stories, her evenings filled not with loneliness but with footsteps that inevitably arrived at the gate, Arjun’s presence as constant as the mist curling over the valley. It was Kamala who first told her about the upcoming village festival, a week of music, fairs, and processions that had filled the hills every year since anyone could remember, and though Mira smiled politely she secretly hesitated, unsure if she wanted to face crowds, unsure if she could let herself be seen as part of something after months of shrinking from the world. Yet when Arjun mentioned it casually as they stacked books salvaged from the library, his eyes bright with anticipation, she surprised herself by saying yes. The night of the festival the village was a blaze of light, lanterns strung across narrow lanes, the air thick with incense, roasted corn, and the laughter of children darting between stalls. Mira walked beside Arjun, her cotton shawl pulled tight against the chill, her senses overwhelmed yet strangely soothed by the joy that pulsed through the crowd. He pointed out the games, the storytellers, the local musicians, greeting almost everyone they passed with an ease that reminded her just how deeply he belonged here. She watched him laugh with an old man selling carved flutes, the sound unguarded, free, and something in her chest shifted. They paused at a stall where a woman painted henna patterns on hands, and before Mira could protest Arjun gently took her wrist and guided her forward. “You should try,” he said, his voice teasing yet gentle, and she sat while the woman traced delicate vines across her skin, the warmth of Arjun’s hand lingering long after he let go. Later, as drums began to beat and dancers circled the fire, Arjun led her towards the edge where the crowd thinned and the hills stretched dark and silent under the star-sown sky. “This,” he said softly, “is why I could never leave. The mountains hold their own music.” Mira tilted her face upward, the stars shimmering like silver dust, the cool air brushing against her skin, and in that moment she forgot Delhi, forgot Rohan, forgot the ache that had driven her here. She felt only the closeness of the man beside her, his shoulder almost brushing hers, his voice low enough to drown out every other sound. “Do you miss it?” he asked suddenly. “The city, the life you left?” She thought of glass towers and traffic horns, of boardrooms filled with polite ambition, of nights spent staring at ceilings while silence grew heavier than walls, and she shook her head slowly. “Not tonight,” she whispered. He turned then, his gaze steady, searching, and for a breathless second Mira felt the world narrow to the space between them, to the unspoken pull that had been weaving itself through their arguments and silences. He did not move closer, but the restraint itself was a kind of intimacy, and she realised she wanted him to, more than she dared admit. When they finally walked back through the glowing village, her henna darkened to a deep maroon, Mira felt as though she carried a secret not inked on her skin but etched somewhere deeper, a secret that tied her to Arjun and to the hills in ways she was only beginning to understand. That night as she lay in the bungalow, the distant echo of drums still drifting up the slope, she held her hand up to the lantern light, traced the fading warmth of the pattern, and whispered to herself that maybe the hills were right—some loves did not need resolution, only recognition.
The morning after the festival the valley lay hushed, the lanterns extinguished, the air carrying only the faint smell of smoke and pine, and Mira felt as though the hills themselves were resting after a night of music. She worked with the masons through the day but her mind kept drifting to the memory of Arjun’s voice under the stars, the closeness of his shoulder against hers, the secret wish she had not dared to name. By late afternoon when he appeared at the verandah with a basket of apples, she found herself smiling before he even spoke. “Come,” he said simply, “the forest path is clear after the rain.” She hesitated only a moment before following, and together they walked beneath towering cedars, the ground damp and spongy, the air alive with the call of hidden birds. Sunlight streamed in fractured beams through the branches, catching in Arjun’s hair, and Mira wondered how someone who carried such grief could still belong so seamlessly to the beauty around them. They spoke little at first, only the sound of their footsteps and the occasional crackle of twigs, but the silence between them had shifted, no longer edged with tension but filled with an ease that startled her. At a bend in the path Arjun paused, gesturing to a moss-covered stone half-buried near a tree. Carved faintly into its surface were initials, R and M entwined in a shaky hand. Mira knelt, brushing leaves away, her breath catching. “It’s them,” she whispered. “Robert and Margaret.” Arjun crouched beside her, his eyes soft with something like reverence. “The forest remembers too.” She touched the carving gently, imagining hands pressed into stone decades ago, love desperate enough to leave a mark where time could not erase it. “They were real,” she murmured, more to herself than him. “Not just whispers. They lived, they loved, right here.” Arjun looked at her then, and the weight of his gaze was so steady she felt stripped bare. “And maybe their story found you because you needed to believe again.” She drew back, unsettled by the truth in his tone, by the way her heart leapt at the implication. They rose and continued walking, and somewhere along the way his hand brushed hers, not intentional, not held, just a fleeting touch that sent a shiver through her more powerful than any declaration. She did not pull away. They reached a clearing where the trees opened to a view of the valley spilling wide and endless below, the mist shifting like waves, and they sat on a fallen trunk sharing the apples, their laughter easy, their shoulders brushing as if it had always been this way. For a long time neither spoke, until Mira found herself saying softly, “Maybe I came here to rebuild more than just a house.” Arjun turned to her, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Maybe the hills brought you here for that very reason.” The words hung between them like a promise neither dared touch, and when they finally rose to walk back, the light fading to gold through the trees, Mira felt as though something had already changed, quiet but irrevocable. That night in the bungalow she laid the apples on the table, the initials R and M etched into her memory, and when she closed her eyes she did not dream of ghosts but of a forest path where her hand had brushed against Arjun’s, and the silence had spoken louder than any vow.
The storm rolled in without warning, black clouds swallowing the sky by late afternoon, the wind rising sharp enough to make the pines moan, and Mira stood at the verandah clutching the railing as sheets of rain hammered down with a ferocity that blurred the valley into silver mist. She had told the masons to leave early and the house felt suddenly vast, creaking under the weight of the storm, when she saw a figure running up the path, drenched but steady, and then Arjun was at the door, shaking rain from his hair, his shirt clinging to his skin. “The bridge is flooded,” he said between breaths, “I can’t cross back tonight.” Mira nodded quickly, her pulse louder than the thunder, and led him inside where the lantern light cast trembling shadows on the walls. The house groaned and rattled, the storm pressing against its bones, and for the first time Mira felt not afraid but alive, as if the walls themselves demanded witness to something about to be spoken. Arjun followed her into the kitchen where she set water to boil, both of them moving in a silence heavy with unsaid things, their closeness charged by the storm. When he handed her a towel their fingers brushed and lingered, neither pulling away, and she felt heat rise through her that had nothing to do with the kettle. They carried the tea to the library room, now partly cleared, where the fire in the grate struggled but held, and they sat on opposite ends of the same rug, the letters and diary fragments spread on the table between them. The wind howled through the shutters and Mira said softly, “Do you ever think we’re meant to finish their story? That maybe that’s why the letters keep appearing?” Arjun’s gaze was steady, unreadable. “Maybe. Or maybe the house just wants us to listen. Not to finish, only to feel.” She met his eyes and saw in them the reflection of her own loneliness, her own need, and for a long moment the room seemed to narrow until it was only the two of them and the sound of their breathing. The fire popped, sending a spark into the air, and Mira whispered, “I was so sure I was done with love.” Arjun’s voice was low, rough. “So was I.” The thunder shook the house but neither moved, and then he shifted closer, just enough that she could feel the warmth of his presence, and her body leaned before her mind caught up. Their lips met softly at first, tentative, tasting of tea and hesitation, then deeper, pulled by a gravity that felt older than both of them, as if the walls themselves had been waiting for this. When they drew back, breathless, Mira laughed softly, a sound that surprised her, and Arjun’s hand brushed her cheek with a tenderness that carried both grief and hope. “Maybe some ghosts bring us back to life,” he murmured, and she closed her eyes, letting the storm rage outside while inside the silence between them finally broke into something whole. They fell asleep on the rug before the fire, the letters scattered like witnesses, the storm still battering the windows, and when Mira stirred at dawn to the softened hush of rain she realised the house no longer felt empty but alive, as though it had accepted them into its story.
The storm passed in the night and by morning the hills lay washed clean, the air sharp with pine and wet earth, the valley glimmering as though the rain had polished every leaf, every stone, every memory clinging to the bungalow. Mira woke to the warmth of embers still glowing in the fireplace, Arjun’s jacket draped over her like a quiet vow, and for a long moment she lay still listening to the soft rhythm of his breathing beside her. The house no longer felt haunted but alive, the silence no longer empty but filled with presence, and she realised she had crossed some unseen threshold where leaving no longer seemed simple. Yet the decision loomed heavy, for her cousin had called the evening before the storm, reminding her that work awaited in Delhi, clients expecting her, a life waiting to be resumed as though she had only stepped away briefly. Mira carried the weight of that call with her as she stepped onto the verandah, the morning mist curling around her ankles, the letters tucked safely in her notebook. Arjun joined her, hair still damp from washing, his eyes tired yet steady, and for a while they simply stood side by side watching the valley breathe. Finally she spoke, the words thick in her throat. “I was supposed to go back after the house was finished. That was the plan.” He nodded, not looking at her. “Plans have a way of breaking here. The hills don’t bend for them.” She turned sharply, frustrated by his calm. “And what then? Do I just stay, abandon everything I built in the city?” His gaze met hers, unwavering. “You left the city because it had already abandoned you. Maybe it’s not about staying or leaving, Mira. Maybe it’s about choosing where you feel alive.” The truth of it struck deep and she had no answer, only the rising swell of her heart that knew the choice had already been made long before she dared admit it. That afternoon she walked alone through the forest path to the stone where the initials R and M were carved, her fingers tracing the faded grooves, and she whispered a promise into the wind, not to finish their story but to continue her own. When she returned to the bungalow Arjun was repairing the railing with deliberate care, and without hesitation she walked up, took his hand, and said quietly, “I’m not going back.” His eyes searched hers as though to be sure, and when he saw her resolve he smiled, a slow unguarded smile that lit the silence brighter than the sun breaking through the mist. That evening the villagers gathered for tea and laughter, welcoming Mira as though she had always been part of their hills, and Arjun stood close beside her, his hand brushing hers, their connection no longer unspoken but certain. As dusk fell, Mira looked at the bungalow rising sturdy against the mountains, its walls patched and strong, its windows reflecting the glow of lanterns, and she realised it had been waiting not just for restoration but for her, for them, to bring life back into its bones. When the first stars appeared above the pines she leaned into Arjun’s shoulder, the letters safe in her pocket, and felt the hills settle around her like an embrace. Some stories were not meant to end, only to continue in new voices, and as the night deepened Mira knew she had found not just a project or a refuge but a home, and in Arjun, a love as enduring as the mountains themselves.
End
