Alpona of the Heart
As they stepped out of the cafe, the rain had eased into a gentle drizzle, but the resonance of Elara's voice still echoed in Ayan's ears. Hesitating for a moment, Ayan finally asked, "Can your poems be read somewhere?"
Elara offered a mysterious smile and replied, "Poems are meant to be remembered, Mr. Ayan; they rarely stay confined to paper. However, if you wish, a few pages of my diary could be opened just for you."
Ayan realized then that this woman didn't just write poetry with words; she was a living poem herself. He pulled a sketchbook from his pocket. On one of the pages, there was a small, delicate sketch—the faint silhouettes of two people tucked under a single umbrella.
"I may not be able to speak with words," Ayan said, holding the sketch out toward Elara, "but I can try to answer your poetry through my lines."
A flash of wondrous surprise danced in Elara's eyes. Under the neon glow of the city's streetlamp, their shadows seemed to merge into one, whispering the beginning of a brand-new story.