Previous chapter: The Girl Who Carried Light
It was another extraordinary autumn morning, the kind that carried a quiet fragrance of love.
The office hummed with its usual rhythm—deadlines looming, phones ringing, voices overlapping—but somewhere in the middle of all that noise, laughter shimmered through, breaking the monotony like sunlight piercing mist.
Ajit found himself listening for that laughter, expecting it. Ever since that evening in the canteen, he had carried her voice somewhere inside him—like a tune that refused to fade.
He had thought, perhaps, he would see her today: maybe passing through the corridor, maybe by the coffee machine, or even just a glimpse near the elevators.
But as the hours passed, she never appeared.
May be her department was on another floor, and she hadn’t come down all morning. He tried not to show it, but a small thread of disappointment tugged gently at his thoughts.
Around midday, Ajit picked up a printed draft to validate with his reporting boss. He stepped out of his cubicle, papers in hand, half-lost in work, when suddenly—
he heard her.
That unmistakable voice—alive, warm, effortlessly bright—carried down the hallway before he even saw her. It was just a casual exchange: she was greeting someone, laughing about a missed meeting. Yet to Ajit, it felt as if color had quietly returned to the day.
He slowed his steps without meaning to, his heart quickening as though recognizing a long-forgotten melody. Her laughter grew closer—light, effortless—and for a brief moment, before turning toward his boss’s room, Ajit allowed himself to simply listen.
Just listen.
He saw her again that evening, standing near the office window, humming softly as the rain began once more. She seemed at peace, as if she were greeting the rain like an old friend.
Everyone else merely saw the rain falling—but Ajit felt that she was feeling it. It was as though she absorbed every drop, without even stepping outside.
How can someone be so connected to nature? he kept asking himself.
Or perhaps she wasn’t thinking of such things at all—but the way she looked through the window told a story.
If Ajit had been a writer or a painter, he knew he would have wanted to capture her just like that, in that very moment.
For a second, he almost spoke—something simple, maybe about the weather or the song—but the words never came. He only watched, silently, as she turned, smiled at a passing colleague, and walked away.
And in that quiet moment, Ajit understood why she fascinated him so much.
She wasn’t the kind of light that blinded; she was the kind that guided—the kind that stayed, even when the world turned dim.
He whispered to himself, almost in awe,
“She lives as if she carries hope inside her pocket… and gives it away without even knowing.”
And though he didn’t yet know her name, he knew this much—
she was no longer just a voice in the canteen.
She was the warmth he had forgotten to look for.
