It arrived without a return address.
A simple brown envelope tucked among the usual fan mail and publishing invites. But something about its rough paper and unfamiliar handwriting made Meera pause before opening it.
Inside was a single sheet of parchment, folded with care. No name. Just a message:
"He never told you everything. Come to Ghaneri. Ask for the old church near the pine ridge. You'll understand why he kept it hidden." — D.
No contact number. No email. Just that cryptic line, as if pulled from a forgotten novel.
Meera read it three times, heart pounding.
Ghaneri.
A small village tucked into the folds of Himachal Pradesh, barely a dot on most maps.
She hesitated only a day before booking the tickets.
Three days later, Meera found herself winding through narrow mountain roads in a rented jeep, watching pine forests blur into the mist. The driver, a wiry man named Parveen, had raised an eyebrow when she'd told him her destination.
"Ghaneri?" he repeated. "Not much there. Just old monks and older secrets."
"Sounds about right," she replied.
By noon, they reached a scattering of stone cottages clinging to a hillside like forgotten memories. Children played barefoot near a stream, and smoke rose lazily from chimneys.
The village felt untouched by time.
Meera stepped out, holding the letter like a map. She approached a woman knitting on a low wooden bench.
"Excuse me. I'm looking for the old church near the pine ridge?"
The woman pointed uphill. "Follow the stone path past the apple orchard. You'll see the bell tower."
The walk was quiet, save for the soft crunch of leaves underfoot.
Then she saw it.
The church stood nestled between two enormous pine trees, its steeple weathered by years of silence. Moss clung to the stones like old regrets, and the iron bell overhead swayed gently in the mountain wind.
The doors creaked as she pushed them open.
Inside, sunlight filtered through stained glass, painting fractured rainbows across wooden pews. Dust hung in the air like suspended memories.
At the front sat an old man in a brown sweater, his back straight despite the cane leaning beside him. He turned as she entered, his eyes sharp beneath thick white brows.
"Meera Kapoor," he said, as if he'd been expecting her for years. "You came."
"You wrote the letter?" she asked.
"I did. My name is Father Dominic."
She stepped closer, unsure.
"You knew Aarav?"
"Knew him well. He spent a summer here when he was nineteen. Did he ever tell you that?"
Meera's throat tightened. "No. He didn't."
"I thought not."
The priest motioned for her to sit. Then, slowly, he pulled out a box from under the altar. A simple wooden chest, locked with a rusted latch.
"He left this with me. Asked me to give it only if someone ever came asking — someone who loved him enough to come this far."
The lock clicked open.
Inside were two items: a sketchbook, its cover worn, and a sealed envelope with her name on it.
Her name. In his handwriting.
Meera's hands shook as she opened the envelope.
Meera, If you're reading this, it means you found the trail I hoped no one would ever follow — and yet, secretly, always wished you would.
I came to Ghaneri when I was nineteen, after I dropped out of engineering for a year. No one knew. Not my mother. Not my friends. I just... vanished.
I was trying to understand who I was without the noise of the world. Without expectations. This place gave me that.
And one night, under the stars behind the old church, I saw her. A girl with no name who used to sit in the apple orchard and paint.
Her name was Isha.
She was wild, like the wind here. Brave in a way I never was. She was the first person I told about my fear of dying.
She was also the first person who held me without asking me to be strong.
We were both too young. And too broken. But for that one summer, we were whole.
She died in a landslide that monsoon. Gone, just like that. No body. No goodbye.
I never told anyone. Not because I wanted to forget. But because I didn't know how to explain a love that came before you — and never faded. Not even when I found you.
I loved you, Meera. God, I loved you so much it scared me. But I had loved her too. In a different lifetime.
If this makes you question anything between us, I'm sorry. But I think you deserve to know all of me — not just the chapters I showed you.
This place saved me. And she was part of that. So are you.
Don't let grief erase the parts of us that came before.
Love, Aarav
Meera didn't cry.
She couldn't.
She sat there, stunned by the quiet truth.
All these years, she thought she was Aarav's first love. Maybe even his only one.
But this wasn't betrayal. It was something else.
A reminder that love wasn't a competition. That hearts could hold more than one great fire — and still burn fiercely.
She reached for the sketchbook.
Inside were drawings — some rough, some delicate. Mountains. A girl with short hair laughing in an orchard. A self-portrait with shadowed eyes. And finally, a page dated August 9th, 2011.
A sketch of Meera.
Done from memory.
She was standing under a tree, head tilted back, eyes closed. At the bottom, in soft graphite strokes:
"This is the girl who will remember me even when I forget myself."
Her vision blurred.
She closed the book, holding it to her chest.
Father Dominic spoke again.
"He used to sit in that corner and write letters he never sent. Said he was preparing for the person he'd one day give his whole heart to. I think… he knew it would be you."
Meera stood up, tears finally falling.
Not in grief.
But in acceptance.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Before leaving, she stepped into the orchard behind the church. The apples had just begun to bloom.
She picked one, took a bite, and let the wind carry the taste of memory down the hillside.
That night, back in her hotel room, Meera began a new chapter in her journal.
Not for Aarav.
But for Isha.
Because stories deserved to be remembered — even the ones tucked away in hidden villages, held only in summer winds and silent prayers.
To be continued…