It had been three months since the letter.
Three months since the train, since the last sea breeze, since Arin's voice faded into the sound of rain.
Life, as it tends to, moved on.
Sjha now taught full-time at the institute.
Her students adored her — they called her "Ma'am" too formally, but she never corrected them.
She smiled when they made mistakes, helped them mix colors, told them stories about how even silence could become art.
But every evening, when the corridors emptied and the last brush was washed, she would sit alone by the window.
That was when she missed the gallery the most.
---
She kept a notebook — one she never showed anyone.
Not for sketches, but for sentences she couldn't say out loud.
> "He said not to come back to finish anything.
But what if I'm not finished?"
> "Some people leave softly, but their silence is heavier than storms."
> "Maybe we were never meant to love each other — maybe we were meant to fix what love had broken in us."
Her handwriting was small, almost shy.
The pages smelled faintly of turpentine and rain.
---
One morning, a message arrived.
An unfamiliar number.
> "Is this Ms. Sjha?"
She frowned, replying, "Yes. Who's this?"
> "This is from the Harbour Gallery, Mumbai.
We found your contact through an old file.
Mr. Arin wanted to inform you — he's leaving the gallery next month."
She froze.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Leaving. Again.
The word burned a hole through her chest.
She didn't reply right away.
She read the message five times, as if the meaning might change.
But it didn't.
---
That night, she walked for hours after class — through quiet lanes, under streetlights flickering like memories.
Every sound — the rustle of leaves, the hum of traffic — reminded her of something Arin once said.
She ended up by the Yamuna river, where the reflection of lights danced on the dark water.
She took out her notebook and wrote,
> "Some people don't return. But they leave you with a compass that still points to them."
---
Days passed.
She tried not to think about it.
She taught, painted, answered emails, smiled at students — did everything a functioning person should.
But one evening, after class, she noticed something strange.
On her desk, a small brown envelope — no name, no return address.
Inside was a photograph.
A picture of her — standing in front of her painting at the exhibition months ago.
Someone had taken it from the crowd.
On the back, in faint handwriting:
> "You were right. Nothing is ever finished."
No signature.
No initials.
But she knew.
Arin.
---
For days, she kept the photo in her sketchbook.
She didn't write, didn't call.
She didn't need to.
Sometimes, silence is enough when two people already understand the words that were never said.
---
Meanwhile, in Mumbai —
Arin stood by the sea again, watching the waves crash against the pier.
The gallery behind him was almost empty — canvases packed, walls stripped bare.
He'd made his decision.
The art collective in Kerala had offered him a position — a quiet town by the backwaters, far from noise and memories.
He wanted peace, or at least something close to it.
But as he looked at the water, he realized peace wasn't about leaving things behind.
It was about learning to live with them.
He opened his phone — half expecting a message from her.
There was none.
He smiled, faintly. "Guess this is what growing up feels like."
Then he turned off the phone and kept walking until the sound of the waves swallowed everything else.
---
Back in Delhi, the semester ended.
Sjha prepared for her students' final exhibition — arranging every frame with care.
The theme was "Echoes."
When the lights dimmed and the showcase began, one of her students whispered,
"Ma'am, why did you name it that?"
She smiled. "Because echoes are proof that even silence remembers us."
---
After the show, she walked home through the drizzle.
She wasn't sad anymore. Not exactly.
Just… aware.
Of how everything — joy, grief, love — had its season.
When she reached home, she saw the canvas from Arin again, hanging near her bed.
For a moment, she thought about taking it down.
But she didn't.
It no longer hurt to see it there.
She sat on her bed, opened her notebook, and wrote slowly:
> "He taught me to see colors in the dark.
I taught him that not every ending needs to be painted over."
She looked out at the rain, falling soft against the glass — slow, quiet, unhurried.
---
The next morning, she got a message from an unknown email address:
> "New art collective launching in Kerala.
Inviting teachers and artists for collaboration."
The sender name read: Arin Collective.
She smiled.
No rush of emotion, no ache — just warmth.
A gentle reminder that people can drift apart and still move in the same current of purpose.
---
She didn't reply.
Not yet.
Instead, she turned off her phone and began to paint again.
Brush steady, heart calm.
The world outside continued to rain — steady, silver, alive.
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> Maybe some stories don't need a full stop.
They just fade into light.
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