The dusty summer air clung to Aaravi’s skin as the bus rolled to a slow stop near the village gate. The familiar sight of mustard fields swaying in the dry breeze and the old rusted board saying "Welcome to Daryapur" made something stir inside her.

She stepped off with her jhola bag, wiping sweat from her forehead. The sun above Rajasthan showed no mercy in May, but the memories here were warmer than the weather. Her family’s ancestral haveli stood not too far—quiet, weathered, but strong, just like her dadi.

As she walked past the same temples, the same muddy paths, the village kids stared at her with wide eyes. She was the “city girl” returning every summer. Only this time, something was different. She could feel it in the silence of the wind.

At the Haveli....

The iron gate creaked open as she pushed it, stepping into the courtyard. There it stood—the mango tree. Massive. Ancient. Shadows of its leaves danced like secrets on the ground.

She paused, staring at it.

“Why do you always look like you’ve seen a ghost when you see this tree?” a soft voice said behind her.

Aaravi turned and smiled. “Dadi. You still scare people better than horror movies.”

Dadi chuckled, her white cotton saree flowing as she walked down the steps with a slow grace. “This tree has seen more than we’ll ever understand. Come inside, beta. You must be tired.”

Aaravi looked once more at the mango tree before following her in. Something caught her eye. A thin string… tied around one of the lower branches.

Aaravi narrowed her eyes. “Is that…”

She walked closer.

Tied gently to the branch, fluttering slightly in the wind, was a folded piece of yellow paper. Old. Fragile.

She plucked it off slowly. No address. Just a name on the front:

"To My Meher."

Aaravi blinked. Meher?

“Dadi!” she called out. “Did someone tie this here?”

Dadi’s face changed. Not panic, but something deeper—recognition.

“You found another one?” she whispered.

“Another one? What do you mean?”

Dadi took the letter from her hand and folded it carefully. “Come inside. I’ll make chai. You shouldn’t open things that don’t belong to you.”

“But it’s on our tree. And who’s Meher?”

Dadi didn’t reply. She walked in, clutching the letter tight.

Later That Night....

The power had gone out. Classic village life.

Aaravi sat near the open window, lit by candlelight, scribbling in her journal when she finally gave in to curiosity.

She pulled the letter from her bag. Dadi must’ve forgotten to take it back.

The ink was slightly smudged, but the handwriting was elegant—like someone from another time.

“To My Meher,

I don’t know if this letter will reach you… or if you’ll even remember me in this life. But I promised I would wait under the mango tree. Every year. Every summer.

If your soul still carries mine… you’ll come.

And I’ll be here.

– Veer”

Aaravi’s hand trembled slightly.

Was this some old village tale? A prank? Or… something else?

She looked out the window. The mango tree swayed again, even though the air was still.

And for a moment…

She thought she saw a shadow standing beneath it.

Watching her.

🕊️🌒

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