"Whispers Beneath the Rain"

The first time Ayaan saw Mira, she was standing under a broken streetlamp in the middle of a
heavy monsoon downpour, holding a red umbrella and a book titled Letters to the Moon.
Something about her stillness in the chaos made him stop.

He was late, as usual, rushing home from his shift at the bookstore café. But that moment froze
time. She looked up. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second, then the rain picked up and she
vanished into the crowd like a forgotten poem.

Days passed. Weeks. But he couldn’t forget her. The red umbrella haunted him like a melody
without lyrics. He went back to that street every evening, pretending not to wait.

One rainy Thursday, she appeared again—same umbrella, same book.

“Are you following me?” she asked, half a smile tugging at her lips.

Ayaan, caught off guard, blurted out, “No—I mean, yes—but not in a creepy way.”

That made her laugh. “I was hoping you would.”

Her name was Mira. She was a writer. A quiet storm who loved monsoons, chai without sugar,
and people who remembered birthdays. Ayaan, in contrast, was spontaneous, clumsy, and
addicted to sunflower seeds. But they fit like puzzle pieces.

Their love unfolded like slow jazz—unpredictable, messy, but beautiful.

They started meeting at the same café he worked at. She’d read her drafts to him, and he’d
listen like each word was sacred. He began writing too, letters he’d never send, poems he’d
never show. All inspired by her.

But every love story carries a shadow.

Mira had a heart condition. A rare one. She’d been living on borrowed time since childhood. She
never spoke of it much, but one evening, when her fingers trembled while lifting her cup, Ayaan
knew.

He didn’t run. He stayed. Through hospital visits, sleepless nights, and days filled with both
laughter and fear.

One night, when the rain poured heavier than usual, she gave him Letters to the Moon. Inside it
was a letter addressed to him.
> If you’re reading this, I may not be beside you anymore. But you gave me more days than the
doctors predicted. And more love than I ever imagined. Don’t mourn me, Ayaan. Write. Love
again. Live for both of us.

She passed away a week later.

Ayaan was shattered, but her words held him like arms from another world.

Years later, his first novel titled Whispers Beneath the Rain became a bestseller. The dedication
read:

> “To the girl with the red umbrella. You never really left.”