The waves whispered against the rocks as Arun Mehta, seventy-one, sat on the old wooden bench outside his seaside cottage. The sun was melting into the horizon — a soft orange glow painting his wrinkled face.His wife, Meera, had passed away ten years ago. His son lived abroad. Most days, silence was his only companion — silence, and the memories that never aged.He spent his evenings writing letters he never sent — to Meera, to time, to himself.Until one evening, someone knocked on the gate.---She stood there — Naina Kapoor, sixty-six, with silver hair tied in a loose bun, and