by Liliana
It was 10:43 PM when the doorbell rang.
Aanya paused the movie, her heart skipping a beat. Living alone had made her sensitive to every creak and whisper of her apartment. But this—this was something else. She tiptoed to the door, her bare feet cold against the tiled floor, and peered through the peephole.
A man stood outside. Soaked to the bone. Head bowed. Still. Silent.
She hesitated. Her phone was within reach. Her neighbors were asleep. But the man didn’t knock again. He simply waited, as if time didn’t exist for him anymore.
“Who is it?” she called, trying to keep her voice steady.
He looked up slowly, his face partially hidden by the hood of his jacket. “I… I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said softly. “I think I used to live here.”
Aanya frowned. “Used to?”
“Twenty years ago,” he said. “This was my home. My mother… she passed away here. Today’s her death anniversary. I just wanted to stand here for a moment. That’s all.”
She stared at him, unsure. His voice was gentle, but grief seemed to pour out of him heavier than the rain.
"Why now?" she asked. "After twenty years?"
He looked away. “Because guilt is a loud companion. I ran away after she died. Couldn’t handle the silence. The house was sold. I never got to say goodbye.”
Silence settled between them like mist.
“I understand if you don’t want to open the door,” he added, stepping back slightly. “Just standing here helps. It’s more than I deserve.”
Against every logical voice in her head, Aanya unlocked the door. Just a few inches. Enough to see him properly.
He looked about forty. Unshaven, exhausted. His brown eyes—wet from rain or maybe tears—met hers.
“I’m Aanya,” she said after a long pause. “I moved in last year.”
He nodded slowly. “I’m Raghav.”
“Do you… want to come inside? For a few minutes. Just to warm up.”
He looked stunned. “Are you sure?”
She hesitated. Then nodded. “Just for a little while.”
He stepped inside carefully, as if worried he might break something invisible. She handed him a towel. He wiped his hands and hair, his eyes scanning the room like he was watching memories play out.
“She used to sit on that chair by the window,” he said softly. “Knitting. Always humming old songs.”
Aanya followed his gaze. She’d always felt that corner held some kind of quiet energy.
“She sounds wonderful,” she said.
“She was,” he replied, a sad smile brushing his lips. “She’d make chai every evening and tell stories from her childhood. I used to complain… but I miss those stories more than anything now.”
Aanya made two cups of tea and gestured for him to sit. They sat at the kitchen table—two strangers bound by the walls that had seen both of them at different points in life.
“I never imagined I’d step inside this house again,” Raghav murmured. “It’s changed… but the soul feels the same.”
“You said you left right after she passed?”
He nodded, his hands cradling the warm mug. “She was all I had. My father had left when I was ten. After the funeral, I couldn’t breathe in this house anymore. It felt… empty and too full at the same time.”
Aanya listened, sipping slowly. His words painted ghosts in every corner.
“I sold everything. Didn’t even pack properly. Took one photograph. Left the rest behind.”
He pulled a small, creased photo from his pocket. It showed a boy around sixteen and a woman with kind eyes. They stood on the staircase, mid-laughter.
“She looks like she loved deeply,” Aanya said.
“She did,” he whispered. “Even when I didn’t deserve it.”
They talked for a while—about his childhood, about the old mango tree that once stood in the backyard, about how the house used to smell of sandalwood and turmeric.
“I always thought if I returned, it’d be empty or torn down,” Raghav said. “But you—you're keeping it alive. And warm.”
Aanya smiled faintly. “I believe houses choose their people. Maybe… your mother wanted you to find it again.”
He didn’t respond. But a tear slid silently down his cheek.
At midnight, he stood.
“I should go,” he said. “Thank you. For letting me in. For letting me remember her.”
She walked him to the door. “Will you come again?”
“Maybe. Or maybe this was goodbye. Either way… thank you, Aanya.”
He stepped out into the night. The rain had eased, leaving behind a world that shimmered quietly. She watched him disappear down the path, his figure fading into the fog.
The next morning, Aanya stepped out for her newspaper. There were no footprints on the wet ground.
But tucked into the doorframe was the photo—of Raghav and his mother, smiling on the staircase. Below it, scribbled in neat handwriting:
“Home never forgets. Thank you for reminding me.”
She brought the photo inside and placed it on the shelf near the stairs—under the same bulb where his mother used to knit.
That night, she swore she heard humming—soft and old-fashioned—coming from the window corner. But when she looked, the chair was empty.
Still, it didn’t feel lonely.
It felt like someone had come home.
React
