ALL RIGHTS RESERVED BY THE AUTHOR
26/04/2025
She waited at the station every evening, wearing the same red saree.
Thirty years had passed since he’d promised to return.
The villagers called her mad, but she smiled through their whispers.
Each dusk, she fixed her hair and held a single marigold.
Trains came and went, none bringing him back.
One winter evening, a stranger approached with his eyes.
He held out a diary—weathered, like her hope.
“My father wrote about you on every page,” he said softly.
She held the diary to her chest, tears washing time.
Love had finally returned, not in flesh, but in words.
RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH
GUWAHATI, ASSAM, INDIA
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