Chapter 1

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The Himalayan wind howled through the narrow streets of Shimla, carrying with it a biting chill and a strange sense of nostalgia. Shubman pulled his woolen coat tighter around his frame, his sharp gaze fixed on the thick envelope he held in his hand. His name was written in a delicate script, and the sender’s address was faded, as if the letter had traveled through time itself.

As he stepped into his modest cottage, a crackling fire greeted him. He placed the envelope on the table, its weight far heavier than it seemed. Beside it lay his camera, the one thing he cherished above all else. Shubman was a travel photographer, known for capturing fleeting, breathtaking moments of beauty. Yet, something about this letter made him feel as though time had paused.

The room was filled with the aroma of spiced chai as he poured himself a cup and hesitated before finally tearing the envelope open. Inside was a letter written in an elegant yet slightly shaky hand:

Dear Shubman, 
If you’re reading this, it means fate has finally brought us together again. I don’t know if you’ll remember me, but I remember every moment we shared. I can only hope this letter finds you in good health. I’ve waited years for this moment, to reconnect, to remind you of what was once ours. Please meet me at the old church on Mall Road at midnight. 
~Ishan.

Shubman frowned, the name tugging at the corners of his memory. *Ishan.* A flash of warmth filled his chest, accompanied by a vague image of a shy smile and sparkling eyes. But how? He didn’t recall meeting anyone by that name, at least not recently.

Curiosity and an inexplicable pull urged him to follow the letter’s instructions. After bundling up, he made his way to Mall Road. Shimla was unusually quiet that night, the streets bathed in moonlight. The church stood at the end of the road, its silhouette stark against the snowy backdrop.

Inside, the air was warmer, carrying a faint scent of old wood and candle wax. The dim light of a few flickering candles illuminated the figure standing near the altar. Shubman’s breath hitched. The man turned around, and their eyes met.

“Ishan?” Shubman’s voice was hesitant yet laced with intrigue.

The man nodded, a soft smile playing on his lips. He was dressed simply, in a white sweater and scarf, his delicate features framed by dark curls. His presence felt achingly familiar, as though Shubman had known him for a lifetime.

“You came,” Ishan whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. He stepped closer, his eyes searching Shubman’s face. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”

“I wasn’t sure either,” Shubman admitted, his voice steady despite the chaos in his heart. “Who are you, Ishan? And why do I feel like I should know you?”

Ishan’s gaze dropped, and he fiddled with the edges of his scarf. “You don’t remember me,” he murmured, more to himself than to Shubman. “I guess I should’ve known. It’s been years, and maybe I meant more to you than you did to me.”

Something in Ishan’s voice broke through Shubman’s guarded demeanor. He reached out, placing a gentle hand on Ishan’s shoulder. “Hey,” he said softly, “tell me. I want to understand.”

Ishan looked up, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Do you remember the summer of 2015? You were traveling through Kerala, photographing the backwaters. We met at a small bookstore in Alleppey. I was the boy who guided you through the canals when your boatman fell sick.”

Shubman’s eyes widened as fragments of a long-forgotten memory surfaced. He remembered the bookstore and the boy with the kind eyes who had laughed at his terrible Malayalam. They had spent hours talking, sharing stories, and drifting through the serene waters.

“You,” Shubman breathed, his voice filled with awe. “I remember now. You were the boy who loved poetry.”

Ishan smiled, a mixture of relief and vulnerability. “And you were the boy who claimed to hate it but secretly enjoyed every verse I read to you.”

The air between them thickened with unspoken emotions. Shubman took a step closer, his fingers brushing against Ishan’s. “Why now, Ishan? Why after all these years?”

Ishan hesitated, his expression darkening slightly. “Because I had to find you before it was too late.”

“Too late for what?” Shubman pressed, his concern growing.

Ishan’s lips parted as if to speak, but he stopped himself. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. “This is for you. It will explain everything.”

Shubman took the paper, his heart racing. But before he could unfold it, Ishan stepped back, his eyes filled with an inexplicable sadness. “Read it when you’re ready,” he said softly. “I’ll wait for you.”

And with that, Ishan turned and walked out into the night, leaving Shubman alone in the quiet church, clutching the letter that promised answers.
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~To be continued

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