The visitor arrived on a Sunday.
That, somehow, made it worse.
Sundays were supposed to belong to rest, to pauses that healed, to the quiet permission of not having to explain yourself to the world.
Maya had just finished sweeping the small room she had begun to call hers when the lodge manager knocked on her door.
"There's someone asking for you," he said. "From Bangalore."
Her heart did not race.
It stilled.
That was how she knew it mattered.
She walked down the narrow staircase slowly.
Not rehearsing excuses.
Not preparing defenses.
Just… breathing.
At the bottom, standing awkwardly near the counter, was Rohan.
He looked thinner.
Tired in the way ambition exhausts you when it finally runs out of arguments.
His shirt was carefully pressed.His hair still disciplined.
But his eyes…
His eyes were uncertain.
That alone was new.
"Maya," he said.
She stopped a few feet away.
Did not smile.
Did not frown.
Just looked at him — really looked — for the first time in years without the filter of marriage, memory, or obligation.
"What are you doing here?" she asked quietly.
He swallowed.
"I came to see you."
"I know that," she said gently. "I meant… why."
He hesitated.
Then said the only honest thing he had brought with him.
"Because I couldn't sleep after our call."
She nodded.
"That makes sense."
He flinched slightly.
Not because she was cruel.
Because she was calm.
They walked.
Not to the port immediately.
First through the town, where Sunday moved slowly, unbothered by their private history.
Past the tea stall.Past the clinic, closed for the day.Past children playing cricket in the street.
He glanced at the clinic sign.
"You're working here now?"
"Yes."
"Temporarily?"
She considered.
"I don't know yet."
That answer unsettled him more than refusal would have.
When they reached the bench by the sea, Kannan was not there.
That felt deliberate, even if it wasn't.
Some meetings need to happen without witnesses.
They sat.
Not close.
Not far.
The sea filled the space where their marriage used to live.
Rohan spoke first.
"I got your father's letter forwarded to me by mistake," he said quietly. "Your mother sent it to the wrong address."
Maya stiffened slightly.
"You read it?"
"I only realized after the first few lines," he said quickly. "I stopped."
She studied him.
Then nodded.
"Okay."
A long silence.
Then:
"You're different," he said.
She smiled faintly.
"I know."
Not apologetic.
Not proud.
Just… factual.
"I thought you'd come back," he admitted.
"Why?"
"Because you always did."
The sentence carried twelve years of unspoken patterns.
Maya inhaled slowly.
"I don't think I ever really came back," she said. "I just… adjusted myself until I fit again."
He looked at her.
Truly looked.
And for the first time, seemed to understand something he had refused to see.
"You were unhappy with me," he said.
"Yes," she replied.
"But you didn't say anything."
"I said many things," she said gently. "You just heard the parts that didn't threaten your plans."
That landed.
He looked away.
"I loved you," he said.
"I know," Maya replied. "That's what made it harder to leave."
Silence.
Waves.
Wind.
Memory loosening.
"Do you hate me?" he asked suddenly.
Maya shook her head.
"No."
"That surprises me."
"It shouldn't," she said softly. "Hate is exhausting. I'm finally resting."
He gave a sad half-smile.
"You always did that. Turn pain into something calm."
She considered that.
"No," she said. "I used to turn myself into something small. This is different."
He sat very still for a while.
Then said:
"I didn't come here to ask you to come back."
She glanced at him.
"I came," he continued, "to ask if… there's anything left of us that deserves to be carried forward."
Maya thought.
Not long.
Because the answer had been growing inside her for weeks.
"Yes," she said. "There is."
Hope flickered in his eyes.
She continued.
"Our honesty."
It faded.
She smiled kindly.
"That's the only part that can survive now."
He nodded slowly.
"I deserved that."
"Yes," she said. "And so did I."
They stood as the sun dipped lower.
Rohan looked out at the water.
"This place changed you."
"No," she said. "This place waited while I changed myself."
He laughed quietly.
"Do you think… someday we'll be friends?"
She considered.
"Not yet," she said. "But maybe someday we'll be… peaceful about each other."
He nodded.
"That's fair."
At the station, they stood beneath the same lights where she had once missed her train.
"Will you come home?" he asked.
"Not now," she said.
"Will you ever?"
"Yes," she said. "But as a guest. Not as someone trying to fit back into a life that ended."
He smiled sadly.
"I think I finally understand why you left."
She met his eyes.
"That's all I ever wanted."
When his train departed, Maya did not feel hollow.
She felt… complete.
Not because the past was healed.
Because it no longer controlled her future.
She walked back toward the port.
The bench was empty.
She sat.
Watched the sea.
And realized something quietly astonishing.
For the first time in her life,a chapter had endedwithout anyone being abandoned.