Nobody in the village of Daryava believed that Vihant was good enough for Eshani.
"He has dreams," they would say.
"But dreams don't feed a family."
Eshani's father owned the oldest grain store in the village. Vihant's father repaired broken bicycles under a neem tree.
Whenever people spoke about marriage, they never mentioned love.
Only land.
Only money.
Only family name.
Still... every evening, Eshani would walk past the old railway crossing where Vihant waited with two cups of tea.
She always asked him the same question.
"If one day everything changes... will you still recognize me?"
Vihant would laugh.
"You ask strange questions."
"You never answer them."
"I'm afraid I'll answer badly."
She would pretend to be angry.
"You never know what to say."
He would scratch his head, smile awkwardly, and offer her the sweeter cup of tea.
That was his answer every time.
Years passed.
Vihant earned a scholarship to study bridge engineering in another state. Before leaving, he took Eshani to the abandoned signal tower overlooking the tracks.
"I can't promise you a palace," he said.
"I don't want one."
"I can't promise life will be easy."
"I know."
"But if you stay with me... I'll never let you face a difficult day alone."
She nodded before he even finished speaking.
The families argued for months.
Slowly...
Very slowly...
They accepted.
An engagement took place with only a handful of people.
No band.
No fireworks.
Just two rings.
After Vihant left, they lived through letters.
Not because phones were impossible.
Because letters lasted longer.
Every envelope smelled faintly of rain by the time it reached Daryava.
One even stained by coffee.
Eshani kept every one of them inside a wooden box.
Then came the flood.
The river that had slept peacefully for decades swallowed roads, fields and homes in a single night.
Eshani helped move children from the village school to higher ground.
On her third trip back, part of the building collapsed.
She survived.
But the falling debris crushed her right hand.
The doctors tried everything.
They saved the hand.
They could not save its movement.
Her fingers would never close properly again.
The first thing she thought about wasn't pain.
It was Vihant.
He loved receiving her letters.
She could no longer hold a pen.
For weeks she stared at blank paper.
Sometimes she cried over it until the ink blurred from tears before a single word was written.
She asked her cousin to mail one final envelope.
Inside was only one sentence.
"Please don't wait for someone who can no longer write your future."
She returned his engagement ring.
After that...
Letters kept arriving.
One.
Then another.
Then another.
She never opened them.
She couldn't bear to.
Months later, her family moved to another town called Niral, hoping distance would do what time could not.
Life became quiet.
Eshani learned to paint with her left hand.
At first the lines were crooked.
Then flowers appeared.
Then rivers.
Then skies.
People began buying her paintings.
She smiled more.
But every monsoon, she still looked toward the railway tracks, though there were none in Niral.
Almost two years passed.
One afternoon, an elderly postman knocked on her door carrying a flat parcel.
No sender's name.
Inside was a wooden frame.
Behind the glass were dozens of folded letters.
Every letter Vihant had written.
None had been opened.
She turned the frame over.
On the back, carved into the wood, were the words—
"Letters are read with hands.
Love isn't."
A familiar voice came from behind her.
"So..."
She turned.
Vihant stood there.
His hands looked rougher than before.
Older somehow.
He walked closer carrying a small leather notebook.
He placed it on the table.
Inside were sketches.
Every page showed a different invention.
A pen designed to be tied gently to a wrist.
Brush holders.
Writing supports.
Simple tools.
Hundreds of failed designs.
The last page held only one sentence.
"I spent two years learning how to help your hand write again."
Without speaking, he slipped the leather strap around her wrist.
He fitted the pen into it.
"Try."
Her fingers did not move.
Her wrist did.
Slowly...
Unevenly...
She wrote one trembling word.
Vihant.
He smiled exactly the way he had at the railway crossing years ago.
Still awkward.
Still unable to find the perfect words.
"So..." he whispered.
"Do you recognize me now?"
Eshani laughed through tears.
For the first time since the flood...
She wrote him a reply herself.