The next day, the town smelled of damp earth and unfinished conversations.
Ayaan returned to the tea stall, pretending he needed tea. He didn't. He needed answers.
"Looking for someone?" the old stall owner asked, eyes twinkling like he had seen too many love stories unfold over chipped cups.
Ayaan shook his head. "No."
But the rain returned — lighter this time — tapping on the tin roof like a patient messenger.
And then she appeared again.
This time she was dry, her scarf a deep shade of blue. She approached the stall, ordered tea, and stood beside him, close enough that he could hear her breathing — calm, steady, unaware of the storm she had left in him.
He wanted to speak.
Instead, he watched a drop of rain slide from the roof and land near her shoe.
Finally, she turned.
"You were here yesterday," she said.
Her voice was soft but certain — the kind of voice that didn't ask questions; it uncovered truths.
Ayaan nodded. "So were you."
She smiled.
It wasn't a grand smile. It didn't demand attention. It simply existed — like the first light of dawn.
"I'm Meher," she said.
The name settled into his chest like it had always belonged there.
"Ayaan."
The rain slowed. The world resumed its rhythm. But something had already shifted.
Two strangers had exchanged names.
And sometimes, that is how forever begins.