Every morning at exactly six, Meera swept the small veranda of her house, even though no dust ever stayed long enough to be seen. It wasn’t cleanliness she cared about—it was habit. A habit formed over fifteen years of waiting.At the corner of the veranda stood a rusted letterbox. Empty. Always empty.Fifteen years ago, on a cloudy afternoon, her husband Arun had left for the city with a suitcase, two shirts, and a promise.“I’ll write,” he had said, touching her forehead gently. “Every month.”Meera believed him. Not because promises always came true, but because believing made the days easier.At first,