Small imaginary stories

 “That summers… don’t last forever.” The boy looked at Grandpa, a little more serious now. “You knew it would end?” he asked. Grandpa nodded slowly. “I always knew,” he said. “But knowing something… and feeling it…” He paused. “…are very different.” The night breeze brushed past them again. “The days after that,” Grandpa continued, “became a routine.” The boy smiled slightly. “A good routine?” “The best kind,” Grandpa said. “Every evening… around the same time…” “I would go to the well.” “And most days…” He smiled faintly. “…she would be there.” The boy leaned back, imagining it. “Sometimes we spoke,” Grandpa said. “Sometimes… we didn’t.” “Didn’t?” the boy asked. Grandpa nodded. “Yes.” “Why?” “Because,” he said softly, “we had already said enough… without speaking.” The boy didn’t interrupt this time. “There were days,” Grandpa continued, “when we would just stand there…” “Doing our own things…” “But aware of each other.” “And that wa...

 “She said… ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ ” The boy repeated it softly, still processing. “That must have felt… big.” Grandpa nodded. “It did.” “That night…” he continued, “I couldn’t sleep properly.” The boy smiled. “Finally, something relatable.” “I kept replaying her voice,” Grandpa said. “Not what she said… but how she said it.” “What do you mean?” the boy asked. “It wasn’t just a sentence,” Grandpa explained. “It felt like… a promise.” The boy leaned back slowly. “So what did you do the next day?” he asked. Grandpa smiled faintly. “I went early.” “Of course you did.” “Much earlier than usual,” Grandpa added. “I didn’t want to miss even a moment.” “And then?” the boy asked. “I waited.” The boy sighed. “Again with the waiting…” Grandpa chuckled. “But this time… waiting felt different.” “How?” “Because I knew she might come.” The boy nodded. That might carried weight. “The sun was still high when I reached,” Grandpa continued. “People ...

  “She spoke first.” The boy leaned so close he almost slipped off his chair. “What did she say?!” Grandpa didn’t answer immediately. His eyes were distant again… but softer than before. “I was standing there,” he began slowly, “trying to gather courage that kept slipping away…” “I took one step forward…” “And before I could say anything…” He paused. “She looked at me.” The boy swallowed. “Not like before,” Grandpa continued. “This time… it was steady.” “No hesitation. No quick turning away.” “And then?” the boy whispered. Grandpa smiled faintly. “And then she said…” He paused again. “ ‘You come here often… don’t you?’ ” The boy blinked. “That’s it?” Grandpa nodded. “Yes.” The boy leaned back slightly. “All this build-up… and she just said that?” Grandpa chuckled softly. “To you… it sounds simple.” “But to me…” He looked at the boy. “…it was everything.” “Why?” the boy asked. “Because,” Grandpa said quietly, “she had been noticing me t...

 “I was becoming someone… she could notice.” The boy raised an eyebrow. “You mean… you changed yourself?” Grandpa smiled faintly. “Not changed,” he said. “Just… became more aware.” “Aware of what?” the boy asked. “Of how I stood… where I stood… when I arrived…” Grandpa said slowly. “Earlier, I just went wherever my feet took me.” “But now…” He paused. “…I chose where to stand.” The boy nodded. “So you planned it.” Grandpa chuckled. “In the smallest ways, yes.” “The next few days,” he continued, “I started going to the well… not just for water.” The boy smirked. “Obviously.” “And sometimes… she would be there.” “Sometimes… she wouldn’t.” “What did you do when she wasn’t there?” the boy asked. Grandpa shrugged lightly. “I waited for a while… then left.” “That must have been frustrating.” Grandpa smiled. “It wasn’t frustration.” “It was… hope learning patience.” The boy went quiet again. “And when she was there?” he asked after a moment. Grandpa’s...

  “That… was the first time I heard it.” The boy leaned forward instantly. “What name? Tell me!” Grandpa didn’t answer. Instead, he looked down at his hands… gently rubbing his fingers together, as if holding something fragile. “They called out to her,” he continued slowly. “A simple call… nothing special for anyone else.” “But for me…” He paused. “…it felt like I had been given something I didn’t know I was waiting for.” “Then what was it?” the boy pressed again. “What’s her name?” Grandpa smiled. But this time… it was different. Soft. Private. Almost guarded. “I never told anyone her name,” he said quietly. The boy blinked. “What? Why?” Grandpa looked at him. “Because,” he said, “some things feel… too personal to share.” The boy frowned. “But you heard it, right?” Grandpa nodded. “Yes.” “And you still remember it?” Another nod. “Then why not just tell me?” the boy insisted. Grandpa leaned back slowly. “I got to know her name…” he said, choosing ...

  “Not where you expected?” the boy asked, eyes wide again. “Then where?” Grandpa smiled faintly, as if even now, the memory surprised him. “At the well,” he said. “The well?” the boy frowned. “What well?” “The village well,” Grandpa explained. “Everyone used to go there… mornings, evenings… to fetch water.” The boy nodded. “Okay… but what were you doing there?” Grandpa gave him a look. “Trying to drink water,” he said dryly. The boy laughed. “Convenient again.” “It was evening,” Grandpa continued. “Not too late… just when the sky starts turning orange.” “I wasn’t expecting anything. I had already convinced myself… that chapter was over.” “And then?” the boy asked. Grandpa’s voice softened. “And then… I heard her voice.” The boy froze. “You heard her before you saw her?” Grandpa nodded slowly. “Yes.” “What was she saying?” the boy asked eagerly. Grandpa shook his head slightly. “I don’t remember the words,” he admitted. “But I remember the feeling.” ...

 “So what happened the next day?” the boy asked quickly. Grandpa didn’t answer immediately. He was looking at the ground now, as if the memory had weight. “I didn’t go,” he said. The boy blinked in confusion. “You didn’t go? After all that?” Grandpa nodded. “Yes.” “Why?!” “Because I was afraid.” The answer came calmly. Too calmly. “Afraid of what?” the boy asked. Grandpa let out a slow breath. “Afraid that she might not look at me again.” The boy frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. If you don’t go, you’ll definitely not see her.” Grandpa smiled slightly. “Yes,” he said. “But at that time… not going felt safer than knowing.” The boy shook his head. “You really overthought even back then.” Grandpa chuckled softly. “Some habits don’t change.” “So you just stayed at home?” the boy asked. “Yes.” “And thought about her?” Grandpa didn’t answer. Which was answer enough. “The whole day felt… strange,” he continued. “I tried to do normal things… help aroun...

 “The first time… she actually looked at me.” The boy didn’t move. Didn’t blink. It felt like even the night paused to listen. “What do you mean looked ?” he asked softly. “Like… properly looked?” Grandpa nodded slowly. “Yes.” “When I stepped out of the church,” he continued, “I saw her walking ahead… just a few steps in front of me.” “I didn’t plan to follow her,” he added quickly. “My feet just… moved.” The boy smirked. “Convenient.” Grandpa ignored that. “The road outside was narrow,” he said. “On one side, there were small houses… on the other, trees that leaned just enough to cast shadows across the path.” “It wasn’t crowded anymore. Most people had already left.” “So it was just you and her?” the boy asked. “And a few footsteps behind us,” Grandpa said. “But in my mind…” he paused, “…it was only her.” “I kept a distance,” he continued. “Not too close… not too far.” “Why?” the boy asked. “Because I didn’t want to scare the moment away.” The boy ti...

 “I…” Grandpa began. Then suddenly— “Appa! Tea is getting cold!” The voice came from inside the house. Both of them turned their heads toward the doorway. The boy groaned immediately. “Oh come on…” he muttered under his breath. Grandpa smiled. “Your grandmother has very good timing,” he said. But before the boy could protest— Another voice came from inside. “And you! Come inside and wash your hands. Dinner will be ready soon!” The boy dropped his head dramatically. “Why does this always happen at the best part?” he complained. Grandpa folded his newspaper slowly, still smiling. “Stories,” he said calmly, “don’t run away.” “But the moment was getting interesting!” the boy argued. “You were about to say whether you followed her!” Grandpa stood up carefully from his chair. “At this age,” he said, stretching his back slightly, “if I stand too long, I might run away before the story ends.” The boy laughed despite himself. Inside the house, the smell of food had a...

 “You didn’t talk to her… and that was it?” the boy asked, clearly unsatisfied. Grandpa opened his eyes, a faint smile returning. “If that was it,” he said, “I wouldn’t remember her after all these years.” The boy leaned forward again. “Then what happened next?” Grandpa looked toward the sky, now turning a deeper shade of blue. “I went again the next day.” “On Good Friday ?” the boy asked. Grandpa nodded. “It was more crowded that day,” he said. “People dressed simply… quietly walking in, sitting down… no one really speaking much.” “But I wasn’t there for the prayers,” he admitted. The boy smirked. “I knew it.” Grandpa gave him a look—but it wasn’t strict. Just honest. “I stood near the same place as the previous day,” he continued. “Not because I planned it… but because something in me hoped…” “That she would come?” the boy completed. Grandpa didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t need to. “And did she?” the boy pressed. A small nod. “Yes.” The boy smiled wide...

 Grandpa’s eyes didn’t blink much now. They weren’t looking at the veranda anymore… they were somewhere far away. “It was a day before Good Friday ,” he said slowly. “A Thursday… not quite afternoon, not yet evening… that strange time when the sun begins to soften.” He paused. “Date was… 22nd April.” The boy’s jaw dropped instantly. “Oh god… you remember the date too?! Uff… damn…” he laughed in disbelief. “You didn’t forget that even at this old age?” Grandpa didn’t laugh. He just smiled faintly… the kind that carried weight. “Some days don’t let you forget them,” he said. The boy leaned in again, this time more serious. “What was so special about that day?” Grandpa adjusted his shawl slightly, as if preparing himself. “It was the first time I noticed her,” he said. Not met . Not spoke to . Noticed. “The village was different during that time,” Grandpa continued. “People were preparing quietly… you could feel it. No loud celebrations. Just a kind of calm… like ...

 The evening sun stretched lazily across the veranda, painting everything in soft gold. The old wooden chair creaked gently as Grandpa leaned back, his eyes half-closed, as if listening to something only he could hear. “Thatha…” the boy called, swinging his legs back and forth from the steps. “Hmmm?” Grandpa responded, not fully opening his eyes. “Did you ever fall in love?” The question hung in the air longer than expected. The birds stopped sounding loud. Even the breeze seemed to slow down, waiting. Grandpa’s fingers, wrinkled and steady till now, paused over the newspaper he wasn’t really reading. A small smile appeared—not wide, not joyful… but distant. “Why do you ask that?” he finally said, turning his head slightly toward the boy. The boy shrugged. “In school, everyone talks about love… crushes… girlfriends. I just wondered… did you also have one?” Grandpa let out a soft chuckle. Not mocking, not amused—just… remembering. “Things were different back then,” he sai...

 The next morning… Aarav woke up before the alarm. 6:30 a.m. Same time. Same ceiling. Same fan spinning above him. Nothing had changed. And yet— everything had. He lay there for a while. Not thinking. Not questioning. Just… aware. Of himself. For the first time— not as a role. Not as an employee. But as something that was about to end. Or… transform. He got ready. Same routine. Same steps. But slower. Not out of hesitation. But intention. Every action felt… chosen. Deliberate. He reached the office at 8:45 a.m. Same desk. Same system. Arav was already there. Of course he was. Typing. Working. Continuing. Aarav didn’t sit immediately. He just stood there. Watching. Not with fear. Not with comparison. But with clarity. Because now— he finally understood. Arav wasn’t an enemy. He wasn’t even a replacement. He was an outcome. A finished version. And Aarav… Was everything that came before it. “You came,” ...