Dilip had lived with silence long enough to make peace with it. Ten years of writing to the same woman and never hearing back had stopped feeling like humiliation; it had become routine — a small, private prayer that steadied his days. Now, at fifty, he wanted to close that circle quietly. Not in anger, not in despair, but in gratitude for what the waiting had taught him.

He sat at the kitchen table, his MacBook open, its white glow spilling across the tiles. Outside, Bandra hummed with night noise — the slow roll of an auto, rain still dripping from an old pipe. He typed until the words finally felt honest.