The night air buzzed with quiet anticipation.
Meera stood backstage at The Lantern Room, an intimate storytelling café in Delhi where poets, authors, and lovers of words gathered beneath fairy lights and shadows to share their truths.
Her palms were sweaty. Not from nerves—she had faced worse. But because tonight, she wasn't just reading from a manuscript.
She was unwrapping a life.
The host, a kind woman named Siya with marigold earrings and a voice like honey, tapped Meera's shoulder.
"You're next, Meera. You ready?"
She smiled faintly. "As ready as anyone can be to resurrect a ghost."
"The stage is all yours."
As she walked toward the mic, the soft strumming of an acoustic guitar faded. Applause greeted her quietly—respectfully. People here didn't clap like they were celebrating. They clapped like they were listening.
She looked out at the fifty or so people in the candle-lit room. All strangers. All stories.
And somewhere among them… him.
Aarav's memory.
Maybe his spirit, too.
She took a breath.
"Good evening," she began. "My name is Meera Kapoor. And I'm here to tell you a story. Not because it's perfect, but because it's real."
She told them everything.
Not all at once, not like a monologue. But in pieces—like memories stitched together by pauses and trembling smiles.
She spoke of Aarav's obsession with rain, his laughter in the hospital corridors, the "two-spoon muffin" café visits. She read the letter he left her—the one she found taped to the medicine cabinet. The one about dancing. The one with the ring.
And finally, she spoke of love as survival, how grief didn't break her, but sculpted her into something rawer, softer, stronger.
The room was silent.
Some people cried. Some stared at their tea. Others closed their eyes, as if remembering their own Aaravs.
When she finished, she folded the page and stepped back from the mic.
The audience stood.
It wasn't thunderous applause—it was something more sacred.
A standing silence.
Until a voice from the back row interrupted.
"Excuse me."
Everyone turned.
A man, tall, in his late forties, dressed in a grey Nehru jacket, stepped forward. His face was familiar, though Meera couldn't place it.
"I'm sorry," he said gently. "But I have to ask… was your Aarav Sharma from Pune? Father was an army colonel?"
Meera blinked, surprised. "Yes…"
The man stepped closer, his eyes misting. "I knew him. In Kashmir. In 2015. He saved my life."
Gasps rippled through the audience.
"We were trapped after an avalanche during a civilian rescue operation. He volunteered to come down even though he wasn't on duty. Spent forty-two hours helping us dig out children and elders. We thought he was mad. But that madness saved over twenty lives."
Meera's heart stilled.
She never knew this.
Aarav had never mentioned it.
"He told me something," the man continued. "While we were camped overnight with little food. He said, 'If I die early, it's fine. But if I leave without leaving a mark, then it's a waste.'"
The audience was spellbound.
The man walked up to the mic, nodding at Meera for permission.
She nodded.
"He didn't just leave a mark. He carved it into everyone who met him. Including me. And I never even knew he was dying back then."
Meera's vision blurred.
She'd known Aarav as her lover, her best friend, her patient.
But this was something else entirely.
A hero she hadn't met.
After the event ended, the man approached her quietly.
"My name's Dev Mehta," he said. "I work with the National Archives. I've been collecting real-life unsung stories. I think Aarav's belongs there."
Meera didn't hesitate. "Yes. Absolutely."
"Would you be willing to share your manuscript?" he asked.
"I'll do better," she said. "I'll help you write his chapter myself."
That night, she didn't sleep.
Not because of sorrow.
But because she was re-learning Aarav.
She remembered all the times he'd disappear for hours and come back muddy or exhausted. He'd shrug and say, "Just errands."
He hadn't wanted praise.
He had wanted peace.
She opened her laptop and added a new chapter to her book:
Chapter 22: The Mountain That Spoke
She wrote about Aarav not just as a lover or a fighter, but as a man who kept saving people even while his own body was turning on him.
She included Dev Mehta's testimony, her own disbelief, and a note:
"Sometimes the people you love are bigger than your version of them. Aarav wasn't just my story. He was part of many. And I am honored to be one of them."
The next morning, Meera visited Aarav's grave.
It was still quiet. Still framed with marigolds. Still damp from last night's rain.
She placed a small stone on the headstone—a tradition from Dev's village, a sign of respect and remembrance.
"You're sneaky, Captain," she whispered. "You never told me. You were out there saving strangers and coming home like nothing happened."
She smiled.
Not the broken smile of grief.
But a proud one.
"Well… now the world will know."
A gust of wind brushed her cheeks, soft and warm.
And for a moment, it felt like fingers.
Like a hand wiping away the tears that never fell.
Back home, her inbox had a new message.
Subject: Publication Approved – "Two Days After You"
Dear Meera, We're honored to publish your story. Your manuscript is unlike anything we've read. Raw, lyrical, and deeply human. The final chapter brought us all to tears. Thank you for letting us carry Aarav's voice forward. We'd like to feature an excerpt at the upcoming "Lives Remembered" festival next month. Let us know if you're willing to speak. Warm regards, The Editorial Board
Meera closed the laptop.
Then walked to her window, pulled the curtains back, and let the sunlight hit her face.
She didn't need permission anymore.
Aarav was alive in pages, in people, and in her.
And now, the world would know not just how he died—but how he lived.
To be continued…