One evening, standing on the same bridge where they’d watched the monsoon clouds gather, Ayan finally said it. “Zara. I can’t think. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. You’ve ruined me.”

She tilted her head, a droplet of rain tracing a path down her cheek. “What’s your name, philosopher?”

She laughed. That sound. It wasn’t just a laugh; it was a spell. Chan-chan… chhan-chhan… like the very anklets she wore had learned to sing.

“You’re getting soaked,” she said, pulling him under the narrow eaves of the old library porch.

“Will you remember this?” she asked softly.