Kavya arrived at her usual hour, just as the sun began packing up for the day—its golden light brushing the leaves like a farewell touch. She walked into the garden with a soft rhythm, the kind that didn’t rush, the kind that felt like it belonged.

Wearing black pants and a fitted tank top, her hair wrapped loosely into a bun, she moved with that effortless energy—the kind that made even ordinary things seem a little brighter. She slipped onto her favorite bench, tucking one leg under the other, placing her tote bag beside her.

Notebooks. A pen. A espresso . She had brought her world with her, as always. But the weight of the day clung to her shoulders more than usual. Within half an hour, her focus had already begun to drift.

With a sigh, she leaned back. Arms stretching wide, head tilted toward the sky—just in time to feel the garden breathe with her.

That’s when she noticed it.

A diary. Resting beside her. Half-tucked under the curve of the bench, as though it had quietly stayed behind, waiting to be found. Its cover was weathered, edges soft and pages slightly crumpled—loved, lived in.

She blinked. Looked around.

Left.
Right.

Only her. And an old gardener in the distance, humming gently to the rhythm of his broom.

She hesitated, then reached for it. Her fingers brushed the cover gently, as though she was touching someone else’s silence.

The diary opened with a whisper. Pages fluttered like autumn leaves before settling on the last one—dated today.

She stilled.

Her eyes followed the handwriting. Small, quiet letters. Barely leaning. They carried the weight of someone who didn’t need to shout to be heard.

[.                    ]

A soft breath escaped her lips. It was not just a poem.
It was a piece of someone.

She stared at the piece of writing for what felt like forever—like time had gently paused just for her. The world around her faded, softened, blurred into a quiet background where the only thing that existed was that page, that poetry, those words.

She read the poem again. Then again. Her fingers moved to the earlier pages, flipping through the diary as if drawn by something she couldn’t explain. There was a rhythm in those words—some longing, some ache, some silence she deeply recognized.

It wasn’t just a diary. It felt like someone had folded parts of their soul into every line.
And now, they were whispering it to her.

Kavya felt a strange stillness in her chest, like something unnamed had begun to bloom. Something she couldn’t yet understand. Her eyes kept returning to the same poem, her thoughts wandering between wonder and warmth, curiosity and comfort.

The hours melted gently.

The espresso she had brought with her sat forgotten on the bench—its bubbles now long gone, the warmth lost, much like the sun that had quietly begun its descent. The sky turned amber, soft and dreamy. The garden, once alive with sounds and footsteps, now began to hum a slower tune—almost as if it was ready to rest for the day.

Startled by how quickly time had slipped through her fingers, Kavya stood up, gathering her things hurriedly, the diary still held with an odd sense of care. A glance at her watch, a soft curse under her breath, and she was off—leaving the bench behind, her heart a little heavier and her mind unusually full.

Moments later, a man entered the garden. Dressed in a formal coat, he walked with a certain purpose, his eyes scanning every corner. He was the same man who had picked up Mayan earlier that day.

He stopped near the bench. A slight frown, then relief.

There it was. The diary.

He picked it up like it held something fragile. With a long, unreadable look at the bench, he turned and left—disappearing into the same quiet the sun had slipped into.

The night had fully arrived, wrapping the sky in a soft, starry blanket.
Cool wind danced through the trees, brushing gently against the leaves like a lullaby.
The bench stood quietly in the corner of the garden, just like it always did.
It had been there for years, watching everything without ever saying a word.

The next day, Mayan returned—but something was different about him.
He looked a little lost, a little too thoughtful.
He kept scratching his head like he was trying to solve a tricky puzzle, and every now and then, his eyes drifted to the bench—as if it could help him figure it out.

He sat down, opened his diary, and paused.

Right there, under the poem he had written the day before, was a new poem.
Neatly written. Soft words.
A reply.
And at the end, just one letter: K.

He blinked.
Once. Twice.
Someone had read his diary.
Someone had replied. In poetry.

His first thought?
How did they understand what he was trying to say?
His second thought?
Who were they?

He sat there for a long time, thinking, guessing, and then thinking again.
But nothing made sense.
Finally, he sighed and gave up. Maybe it wasn’t a mystery to solve. Maybe it was just… something nice that happened.

So, like always, he picked up his pen and started writing.
But this time, something strange happened.

When he finished, he realized the poem he had written—without even planning it—felt like a reply.
To her reply.

He stared at the page in surprise.
It didn’t feel like he had chosen the words.
It was as if his hand had moved on its own, like the words had been waiting to be written.

For a moment, his face turned serious—rare for someone as calm and quiet as him.

Then, slowly, he packed his things.
But not everything.

He left the diary.
On the bench.

Exactly where it had been the day before.

This time, not by mistake.
This time, on purpose.
A secret only he knew.