Time didn't stop for anyone.
Not even for letters that never reached.
By September, the rains had softened into quiet drizzle.
The city smelled of wet roads and paint thinner — a strange comfort for Sjha.
Every morning she opened the studio, wiped the dust from the frames, and began again.
Her students had grown — not just in number, but in spirit.
Children who once scribbled chaos now painted skies.
Some said her studio felt peaceful.
She just smiled and said, "Maybe it's the light."
---
But there were still days when her mind drifted back to the sea.
Not the waves, not even Arin — but that strange little house with white walls and one open window.
Somewhere far away, she imagined him sketching under the same light, writing another letter, maybe smiling at a thought she'd never know.
And that was enough.
She didn't need to wait anymore.
But she still did — just a little.
---
One afternoon, Meera brought a visitor.
"This is Rian," she said. "He's a photographer — wants to do a small feature on the studio."
Sjha hesitated but nodded.
Rian smiled easily, holding a small vintage camera.
"I like capturing places that carry stories," he said.
"Then you'll have too many here," she replied softly.
As he clicked photos, he paused near Arin's sketch hanging on the wall.
"This one's different," he said. "It feels… unfinished."
"It is," she said.
---
Later, when he left, Meera nudged her.
"He seems nice. You should talk more."
"About what?"
"Anything. Maybe it's time you stop talking to ghosts."
Sjha smiled faintly but didn't reply.
Some silences didn't need filling.
---
Meanwhile, miles away by the coast, Arin sat outside the same white house, staring at the horizon.
His hands were stained with charcoal and salt.
He'd written her letter weeks ago.
No reply had come.
At first, he thought she was busy. Then maybe she was angry.
Then maybe she'd moved on.
He didn't blame her.
He had told her not to wait.
Still, part of him hoped she would.
The sea wind howled louder than usual that night, carrying his thoughts out into the dark.
He whispered into the waves,
"If she forgot me, maybe that's peace too."
But the truth stung.
---
Back in the city, life kept moving.
Lightspace got featured in a small magazine.
More people came, more laughter filled the hallways.
And one evening, as she locked up, Sjha realized she wasn't scared of the dark anymore.
She walked home through soft rain, humming.
Halfway, she stopped — the sky glowed orange and gray, and for a second, the reflection in the puddle looked like him.
Same posture, same coat.
Her heart jumped.
She blinked — gone.
She laughed quietly to herself. "You're haunting me again, Arin."
---
At home, she found another envelope in her mailbox.
Different handwriting this time — neat, printed letters.
> "Your studio brings light to this city. We're hosting an art festival next month.
We'd like you to display your work.
— City Arts Council."
She stared at it, stunned.
Her first real exhibition.
---
For days, she prepared like a storm — canvases, textures, frames.
Every painting she made carried a trace of him — not his face, but his absence, his silence, the way he looked at the world.
And in the corner of her biggest canvas, she signed two letters:
S & A.
---
On the day of the exhibit, the hall buzzed with soft chatter and camera flashes.
People admired, whispered, smiled.
But Sjha barely heard them.
She stood near her centerpiece — "Echoes of the Rain."
Two figures in the distance, facing a horizon of light.
It wasn't sadness.
It was peace.
---
Somewhere far away, in that coastal town, Arin stood outside a small post office.
He had come to send another letter — maybe the last one.
"Name?" the clerk asked.
"Ms. Sjha," he said. "City Arts District."
The man shuffled papers, then frowned.
"Wait… you had a letter returned from her address weeks ago."
Arin blinked. "Returned?"
"Yes. It must've been misplaced. We found it yesterday."
He took the envelope, heart hammering.
His own handwriting stared back at him.
He opened it — his own words, still sealed, never sent.
His hands trembled.
So that's why she never replied.
All this time, they were both waiting for a letter that never came.
---
He sat on the steps outside, the sea roaring behind him.
In his sketchbook, he drew quickly — her face again, this time smiling, not sad.
Under it, he wrote:
> "She didn't forget. The world just misplaced our words."
He folded the sketch, tucked it inside a new envelope, and sent it again.
Then he packed his things and looked toward the road.
"Time to go back," he murmured.
---
Back in the city, the exhibition ended with applause.
Rian clicked one last picture of her smiling.
"You should be proud," he said.
"I am," she replied. "Just… missing one person in the crowd."
He smiled gently. "Maybe he's closer than you think."
---
Outside, rain began again — soft and endless.
Sjha looked up at the sky, whispering,
"If that letter ever finds its way, I'll be here."
And somewhere, a bus rolled out of the coastal town, headlights cutting through mist.
Inside sat a man with a sketchbook on his lap, a faint smile on his lips.
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