It was the kind of rain that made everything feel slower — a soft, rhythmic drizzle over the sleepy town of Elmsbrook. But for Ayaan, the world had never spun faster. He stood outside the old post office, drenched, clutching a letter addressed to a name he hadn’t said out loud in two years — Meera.She was the kind of girl you didn’t just fall in love with — you belonged to her. Their story had begun beneath the cherry blossoms at university, where poetry met physics, and his silence met her songs. Meera believed love was a kind of