“Will you write again?” Meera asked, a hint of melancholy in her voice.
“A mother’s love, a child’s yearning, and the tender beats that bind two hearts.” “Will you write again
Their conversation drifted from personal dreams to shared childhood memories of monsoons—of splashing in puddles, of mangoes falling from trees, of the smell of wet earth that always smelled like home. “Will you write again?” Meera asked