The rain had slowed to a drizzle by the time they reached the café. The street outside glistened in the low light, every puddle catching and stretching the reflection of a neon sign from the noodle shop across the road.
Aarya pushed open the café door and a soft bell chimed above her head, releasing a wave of warm, coffee-scented air that made her shoulders loosen. The place was half-full students hunched over laptops, an elderly man reading a newspaper with a magnifying glass, a couple in the corner murmuring over a slice of cake.
"My treat," Aarya said as they stepped inside, glancing at Sid over her shoulder.
Sid's grin was instant, almost boyish. "Yours it is, then."
They queued at the counter. Aarya scanned the chalkboard menu, but her mind was elsewhere, flicking through thoughts like pages in a restless book.
They ordered: masala chai for her, black coffee for him, chilli cheese toast to share. The barista scribbled their order on a notepad, and they moved to a booth tucked into the farthest corner — the kind of spot where conversations disappeared into the hum of espresso machines and low music.
Sid leaned back against the bench seat, stretching his legs under the table. "So… what's up?"
Instead of answering, Aarya asked, "How long have you been volunteering at the centre?"
Sid took a sip of his coffee no sugar, no milk before answering. "Volunteering? Since I was five. Back then it wasn't really volunteering. Mum ran the library, so she just… brought me along. Eventually, I started shelving books, helping out with the after-school reading group."
"Your mum runs the whole thing?"
"The library and the centre, yeah." His voice warmed as he spoke about it. "I've always liked the library part — the quiet, the smell of old pages. I was against her adding the classes, though. Thought it'd ruin the calm."
Aarya smiled faintly. "And yet here you are, sitting through them."
Sid rolled his eyes. "She's stubborn. Before she bought the place, that big room where the creative writing class happens now? It used to be for girls from poor families, basic literacy stuff. That program moved elsewhere when she took over. She didn't want the room to go unused, so she decided on creative writing. Free classes. Says she likes reading stories 'that burn with passion.'"
"She's not wrong," Aarya said, thinking of Ms. Dutta's enthusiasm in class.
"Don't tell her that," Sid replied with mock seriousness, a smile tugging at his mouth.
From there, the conversation meandered. They swapped opinions on street food (he swore by bhel puri, she defended samosas with stubborn loyalty), debated the best time to visit the beach, laughed over a chess match Sid once lost to an eight-year-old who barely spoke but played like a machine.
Time became fluid, melting into the café's warmth.
An hour later, Sid tilted his head, a sly glint in his eye. "You did invite me for something, right? Or was this just an elaborate scheme to get free food out of me?"
"Oh. Right." Aarya set down her cup, fingers drumming against the ceramic. "It's about… the diary. And some other things I've pieced together."
Sid's amusement faded into a sharper, more focused look. "Go on."
She flipped open her notebook, the pages filled with her tight, slanted handwriting. She'd recopied the diary excerpt at the top of one page. "First clue — the diary entry:
I saw him again today. I shouldn't feel this way. But I can't help it. If anyone finds out, I'm finished. But it's like I'm flying when I'm with him…
Signed only with the initials M.S.
"At first, I thought M.S. were the writer's own initials. But the tone…" She tapped the page. "…it's not someone talking about themselves. It's about someone else."
Sid leaned forward. "And?"
"Second clue — Priya told me she overheard the old watchman near the south gate. He said someone was sneaking around there last week, late at night."
Sid frowned. "Could've been anyone."
"True. And that's why I didn't connect them immediately." She paused, letting the sound of the rain against the window fill the space. "Not until Ms. Dutta's class yesterday."
Her mind drifted back to the scene: Ms. Dutta pacing in front of the whiteboard, her arms full of mismatched objects — a grease-stained pizza box, a single grey feather, a dangling silver earring, an ancient Nokia phone.
Forced convergence, Ms. Dutta had said. When unrelated elements come together to form a single narrative if you look hard enough. That's your exercise find the story that connects them.
"That term forced convergence wouldn't leave my head," Aarya said now. "Because that's exactly what these clues are. They look random. But when you force them together…"
Sid's gaze sharpened. "You saw something."
"I remembered a night, weeks ago. I was leaving the centre late. Near the south gate, I caught a glimpse of someone walking away. A man I'd seen in the library before — Mohan Sharma."
Sid's eyebrows rose. "The assistant librarian?"
"Yes. And here's the strange part — he has this small feather charm on his keychain. It jingles when he walks. I didn't think much of it at the time. But when I saw the feather in class, it hooked that memory out of storage."
Sid tilted his head. "So you think M.S. is "
"I do. But then there was the handwriting. The diary's writing is neat, rounded, precise like someone who fills out forms all day. Mohan doesn't write like that. I've seen his notes on book slips, all in blocky capitals. And the tone of the entry it's careful, measured. Not impulsive."
Sid waited, letting her think.
"So I started watching, quietly," Aarya continued. "And I noticed Ms. Iqbal, the coordinator for the women's reading group, is always formal with him when others are around. But when she thinks no one's looking… there's something different. A look, like she's set down a heavy bag for just a second."
The pieces clicked into place between them.
"The diary belongs to her," Aarya said. "And M.S. Mohan Sharma is the man she's writing about. They've been meeting near the south gate. The watchman saw movement, assumed trouble. Priya heard his gossip and passed it to me. And I…" She gave a rueful half-smile. "…built a whole mystery out of a love story."
Sid let out a slow breath. "You did all that from a feather, a diary page, and some overheard talk?"
"Patterns," Aarya said simply. "If you listen carefully enough, the smallest details can be deafening."
For a while, neither of them spoke. The café's warmth wrapped around them, the hiss of milk steamers and the occasional clink of cups filling the silence. Outside, the drizzle thickened again, rain tracing crooked paths down the glass.
When they finally stood to leave, Sid shook his head with a grin. "You know, you could've been a detective."
Aarya smirked. "Or a writer. The line's thinner than you think."