It had been years since anyone noticed the old bench beneath the gulmohar tree at the edge of the park. Weather-worn and chipped at the edges, it stood silent witness to a thousand sunsets, its stories tucked away in the grooves of its wooden slats. No one sat there anymore—except for Mira, who came every Thursday at 5 PM with a cup of chai and a book she never read.
Mira wasn’t waiting for someone, at least not anymore. But the habit lingered like a stubborn shadow. Years ago, this was their bench—hers and Arjun’s. A place of first dates, silly arguments, and quiet dreams. When he left for London, promising to return by monsoon, she believed him. The rain had come. He hadn’t.
On this particular Thursday, it rained early. The kind of rain that smells like memories. Mira almost turned back, but her feet had other plans. When she reached the bench, soaked and shivering, someone was already there—sitting just like she used to, cup in hand, wearing the same old smile. Arjun.
They didn’t say much. They didn’t need to. Sometimes, the heart remembers what the mind forgets. And sometimes, a forgotten bench in the rain is all you need to begin again.