[Highest Rank - 34]
An insomniac writer, looking for a new story, crosses paths with a mysterious girl who engages him in an infamous serial murder case, and brings him to a point where he begins to question his own Sanity.
Title:...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
24 Dhiwan Road
Chapter 8.1
The Wind Called Love
'Serendipity'
* * *
_________________
~ A Few Days Ago ~
(Pov : Kalpit)
_____________ [A/N : To Avoid Confusion of Narrators, kindly refer the Note at the end of the chapter]
August, as I felt and realized, is the best month to fall for someone. Best month to taste the cranberry juice from those lips, to walk barefoot on the cold grass holding hands in peace, to softly hum the songs of love in the ethereal nights.
August is the true harbinger of change, from the scent of flowers to the cold breezes, everything changes. The summer begins to fade and the winds begin to pull the chariots of winter, and when you look deep enough in the eyes of your loved ones, you feel the beauty of nature in the delicate reflection. When I ran my fingers over her plump cheeks, pressing her lower lip from my thumb to a point that her grip around my waist tightened, and we witnessed a fountain of emotions pouring out of our autumn hearts.
It all happened in August. The first love, the piano dance, the moon kiss, the sparrow hunt and the inevitable heartbreak. When I think of it, all of it, I feel sad, devastated and lost.
Lost, like those hundreds of characters I created in stories, figures floating in the ink of fiction, characters at the mercy of my pen's tip, and look at me now, I don't feel less than any of my characters. But I didn't create her like I created others, she was all real. Real and beautiful. My girl in the café.
'It was nice meeting you, Mr. Bogart!'
Her words floated before me, and I was drowning back into the memories of August.
It was after our first meet, I realized I could also feel for someone. When she was leaving the café, her white bag swinging freely like a bird, I felt a strange connection. A dance of emotions. I wanted to follow her, to say a few things, to fall on my knees and to tell her a story in which we both could live and never die.
I didn't move an inch, or I couldn't as I was spellbound. So I stayed in my seat, and lighted another cigarette, watched her take a cab, and then she disappeared. I came back to my apartment and slept silently. I couldn't stop dreaming about her.
Next evening, I had an appointment with Dr. Gill. More than an appointment, it was just a casual café meetup. She was going to L.A with the next flight, and only agreed to see me for 15 minutes. I spent my entire day sleeping, dreaming of stuff that I like to write in my notebook, and usually around 10 or 11 night, I opened my eyes to the world.
