Every winter, when the fog rolled softly over the small town of Shantipur, a slow blue train stopped at platform number three. Most people barely noticed it — just another late-night train carrying tired passengers and silent stories.
But for Ayan, that train meant everything.
He was a quiet boy who worked at his father's old bookstore near the station. Every evening he arranged books outside the shop, hoping someone might pause long enough to notice them — or him. Life felt predictable, like the ticking of the station clock.
Until one winter evening, when she arrived.
Her name was Mira.
She stepped off the train wrapped in a mustard-colored shawl, her eyes curious and alive, as if she was searching for something she couldn't yet name. While waiting for a taxi, she wandered into Ayan's bookstore.
"Do you have poetry?" she asked.
Her voice was gentle but confident.
Ayan nodded nervously and handed her a worn book of poems. She smiled — not a quick polite smile, but one that lingered.
That was the beginning.