The next morning, Vihaan found himself lingering near the dining room, the hairpin still tucked in his pocket.

She sat at the table, sipping tea and flipping through a book, her golden hair tied up in a loose knot. He noticed a strand had slipped free, curling softly against her neck. 

He cleared his throat. “You… dropped this yesterday.” He held out the hairpin.  

She looked up, surprised, then smiled. “Thank you. I thought I’d lost it.” 

As she reached for it, their fingers brushed lightly. Vihaan froze, the touch sparking a memory of *her*—the one from five years ago, the one he’d loved and lost. He pulled his hand back too quickly, guilt flashing in his eyes. 

She noticed but said nothing, tucking the pin into her hair. “Would you like to join me for breakfast?” 

He hesitated. Old habits told him to say no, to retreat to the safety of his office. But Arv’s words echoed: *“Life’s too short to live in the past.”* 

“Sure,” he said, sitting down awkwardly. 

They ate in silence at first, the clink of cutlery loud in the quiet room. Finally, she asked, “Do you always work this early?” 

He shrugged. “It’s… easier. Less distractions.” 

She raised an eyebrow. “Distractions like me?” 

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Maybe.” 

She laughed—a soft, warm sound that caught him off guard. For a moment, the weight in his chest eased. 

But later, as he walked to his office, his phone buzzed. It was Arv. *“So? Did you talk to her?”* 

Vihaan typed, deleted, then finally sent: *“We had breakfast.”* 

Arv’s reply was instant: *“Progress. Don’t mess it up.”* 

Vihaan stared at the message, then glanced back toward the dining room.

Can I really do this?* he wondered again. But this time, the fear felt smaller. 

Two days later, Vihaan stood in front of her mausoleum, a bouquet of white lilies in his hand. Today was her birthday—the woman he’d loved and lost five years ago. The marble stone gleamed under the grey sky, her name etched in letters he could never forget.

He knelt, placing the flowers gently. “I… still miss you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “But I don’t know how to let go.”

The wind rustled through the trees, carrying his words away like a secret he’d never meant to share. He stayed there for a long time, the cold marble biting into his knees, until his phone buzzed—a reminder for a meeting he’d forgotten. 

When he returned home, he found her in the garden, tending to the roses. She glanced up, her hands stilling at the sight of his haunted expression. Without a word, she stood, brushed the dirt from her hands, and walked toward him. 

“You don’t have to let go,” she said quietly, catching him off guard. “But you can’t let the past drown the present.” 

He stared at her, stunned. “How did you…?” 

She smiled sadly. “Grief has a way of leaving shadows on people’s faces. I recognize it.”