The sun had just begun to melt into orange when Meera stood outside the old garden near the city's edge.
It was the place where she and Aarav had once danced barefoot in the rain—no music, no rhythm, just two soaked hearts twirling in rebellion. A memory now soaked in nostalgia.
A gentle breeze rustled the peepal trees, and children ran wild, chasing each other with paper kites and giggles.
Meera stood still, watching.
Her fingers clutched a photo Aarav had once taken here—her in a floral dress, spinning, arms open, head tilted back to drink in the sky. Behind her: Aarav's sandals. Abandoned. He was always running barefoot into joy.
She hadn't visited since he died.
Too sacred.
Too loud in her chest.
Too full of him.
But today, the letter, the notebook, the video—everything felt like a summons. A whisper from beyond.
Come. One more time.
She sat on the rusted bench they had once carved their initials into.
A+M = Still Fighting
The scratch marks had faded, but she remembered exactly where they were.
She closed her eyes, letting the breeze tangle her hair, letting her body remember his warmth, the way his laugh had echoed through this garden like sunlight.
Then she heard it.
A small voice, laughing. Bright. Bouncing.
She opened her eyes.
A little boy—maybe six or seven—was sprinting across the field, chasing a red kite. The string twisted in the wind, and the boy's feet barely touched the ground.
There was something oddly familiar in the way he moved. Wild. Joyful. Reckless.
Just like—
"Careful!" Meera called as he stumbled near a tree root.
The boy looked at her. Grinned. "I'm okay!"
His voice was sweet. Unafraid.
The kite flew higher, swaying dangerously.
A gust of wind pulled it out of his grip.
It landed right at Meera's feet.
She bent and picked it up.
It was handmade. A bit uneven. Drawn in bright crayons. A smiley face in the center with the words written across the top in a child's messy handwriting:
Captain Aarav.
Meera froze.
"What did you say this kite's called?" she asked as the boy ran up.
"Captain Aarav!" he beamed. "He's a superhero my uncle told me about!"
The air inside Meera's chest vanished.
"Your uncle?" she said slowly.
"Yeah. He used to live here. But he went away. To the stars."
She knelt down. Her voice trembling.
"What was your uncle's name?"
"Aarav Sharma."
She sat down hard on the bench.
The boy looked at her curiously. "Do you know him?"
"Yes," she whispered. "I loved him."
"You're Meera?" His eyes lit up.
She looked up, startled.
"How do you know my name?"
The boy reached into his tiny backpack and pulled out a folded paper.
"Uncle Aarav gave this to my mom before he… you know… flew away."
She unfolded the paper.
It was a sketch—done in Aarav's rushed, wild strokes. Of a woman standing in the rain, laughing.
At the bottom: "For Meera. If she ever finds you. Tell her I'm still dancing."
She was crying now. In front of a seven-year-old. In the middle of a park filled with joy.
"What's your name?" she asked, brushing tears away.
"Yuvaan," he said proudly.
"And your mom?"
"Pihu Sharma."
Meera blinked.
Aarav's cousin. The one he always said was like a sister. They'd grown up together. After his parents died, she was the only family who never disappeared.
He must've stayed with her near the end.
That's why she never knew.
That's where he kept the story of Captain Aarav alive.
Yuvaan sat beside her on the bench, legs swinging.
"Uncle Aarav used to tell me stories about this place," he said. "Said he once danced in the rain with someone magical."
"Did he tell you what she looked like?" Meera asked, smiling through her tears.
"Yeah! He said she had eyes that could make storms jealous."
She laughed softly. "That sounds like him."
"He also said…" Yuvaan leaned in like he was sharing a great secret, "...that if you ever find her, give her a hug."
He held out his arms.
Meera didn't hesitate.
She wrapped her arms around this small, glowing memory of the man she loved. And for a moment, the ache in her chest softened.
Yuvaan pulled back. "You smell like vanilla. He said you would."
They sat there for a while, watching the sun dip lower.
Yuvaan talked about the comic book Aarav had drawn for him—about Captain Aarav, the bald superhero who fought monsters made of sadness and fear.
"He always won," Yuvaan said proudly.
"Even when he was tired?"
"Especially then."
Before leaving, Yuvaan looked up at her and said:
"You should write a book about him."
"Why me?"
"Because you knew how he danced."
That night, Meera walked home with a folded drawing of herself in one hand, and the memory of a boy who flew kites in the other.
For the first time in a year, she opened her laptop.
The cursor blinked, waiting.
And she began to type.
"This is a story about love, and death, and what survives both. This is the story of Captain Aarav. And the woman who still dances with his shadow."
To be continued…