Years ago, Meera had stood on the same platform holding a book close to her heart.
She had learned early in life that silence could protect you. Words, once spoken, could be taken away, misunderstood, or broken. Silence stayed loyal.
Her father had left when she was thirteen. Her mother never spoke of him again, as if silence could erase pain. Meera learned to do the same—with feelings, hopes, and people.
She loved books because they stayed. Stories didn't leave in the middle of the night.
That evening, she didn't know that a stranger was watching her—not with hunger, not with curiosity, but with recognition.