Station Announcement:
"Attention: passengers waiting for closure — your journey may continue beyond the last stop. Please carry only what needs to be remembered."
The bridge was quiet that evening.
Not silent — rivers rarely are — but quiet in the way places become after they've lived too many stories.The water beneath it glimmered under the last light of day, and the monsoon air smelled like river mud and memory.
Arjun stood on the bridge's midpoint and closed his eyes.
He could still smell the night of the flood here — diesel from trucks, wet cement from collapsed walls, the iron tang of uncertainty.He remembered the rainstorm that had stopped time. The children singing in a broken classroom. The lantern someone lit in defiance. Basil, younger than the rest, with a notebook pressed to his chest like a life raft.
Tonight, the bridge felt different.
It was ten years older, reinforced and repainted.But beneath the fresh paint was the same stubborn arch that had refused to crumble — just like Arjun, he sometimes thought.
Or perhaps, like all of them.
He traced the railing with his fingertips where names had once been carved — a promise, a memorial, a graffiti of belonging.
The river, swollen from the first monsoon rains, murmured beneath him.
Somewhere down-current, the Houseboat Hospice lay moored, its lanterns glowing like quiet prayers against the dusk.
He heard the footsteps before the voice.
"I knew I'd find you here."
Sara's voice always carried a calm warmth — a lantern in motion.
She walked toward him, umbrella held high in the way of someone who didn't trust the sky but liked the ritual of protection.A soft rain was starting. The light kind — a reminder rather than a threat.
"What gave me away?" Arjun asked, not opening his eyes.
"You always stand here when something is changing," she said."And something always is."
He smiled, a little sadly. "Basil woke today. Really woke. Recognised his mother's voice."
"That's good," she said quietly.
"It is," he agreed. "But he asked me the question I've been answering for years without answering."
"What question?"
"He asked me, 'Mashu… why didn't I stay?'"Arjun looked down at his own feet, rain darkening the concrete."And I couldn't tell him. Because I still don't know if I even wanted him to."
Sara didn't respond immediately.She stood beside him, letting the silence do its own work.
Finally, she said, "We tell children to dream, but we don't warn them that dreams weigh more the farther they travel."
Arjun turned to look at her.
"Do you think… he came back to stay?" he asked.
"No," she answered softly. "He came back to finish."
Behind them, a cluster of wooden boats passed, carrying goods even at dusk.
Sara watched them go.
"Do you think… you stayed to finish something too?" she asked.
Arjun sighed.
"I think I stayed because somewhere along the way I stopped believing I had anywhere else to go."
Sara's umbrella shifted. Rain began to freckle her shoulder.She didn't seem to mind.
"You created a school," she said. "You taught riverbanks and refugee shelters and now this new boy you've taken in — all with less than most teachers have. Don't confuse stillness with stagnation."
Arjun chuckled. "Are you saying I should be proud?"
"I'm saying you're the bridge," she replied."And bridges don't move — they let others cross."
He breathed deeply.
He hadn't meant to cry, but his eyes burned suddenly.She pretended not to notice.
In the distance, they heard a bicycle bell ring.When they turned, they saw Arun — soaked, clutching a notebook, breathless.
"Mashu!" he called. "You forgot this!"
Arjun shook his head. "Already the keeper of my memory."
Arun reached them, panting.Then he saw Sara, recognised her from the hospice, and ducked his head awkwardly.
"Ma'am."
Sara smiled gently. "Just Sara."
Arun nodded, then asked, "Is Basil chettan okay today?"
"He woke," she confirmed. "He will need time."
Arun clutched the notebook like a small shield.
"I want to help," he blurted. "Not just learn. Help him… and people like him."
Arjun raised an eyebrow. "How?"
"Teach," Arun said. "Not like you. But… maybe… for kids like me. Who think big but don't have the words."
Sara smiled softly.
"You've already begun," she said. "Teacher is not a job — it's a habit."
Arun blinked in the rain. From behind his wet fringe, a question formed.
"Will you… both teach me?" he asked quietly.
The two adults exchanged a look — one filled with unspoken recognition.
"Yes," Arjun said. "That's the whole point, isn't it?"
Sara nodded. "And we'll learn from you too."
Thunder rolled in the distance — that deep, familiar sound like unseen stone being dragged across the sky.
Arun looked up into it, eyes bright, as if listening for a command.
"There's going to be another flood soon, isn't there?" he asked.
Sara sighed. "There always is. But we're stronger now."
"Not stronger," Arjun corrected gently. "More connected."
Arun nodded.His expression sparked with something new — not just determination, but understanding.
The river continued its constant, restless song below.
Sara placed a hand on Arjun's arm and said softly:
"People talk about the flood remembering everything it touched. But I think people remember even longer. That's why it returns."
Arjun nodded slowly. "To check if we kept our promises."
Arun's bicycle rattled behind them. He looked at both of them in the dimming light.
"What promises?" he asked.
Arjun smiled. "All of them. Every one we made to each other without realising."
Sara laughed softly. Rain tapped through the umbrella.
"Well," she said, "then we should better start keeping them."
When they left the bridge, the rain had grown heavy.
They walked together — teacher, nurse, boy — toward the road lit by streetlamps flickering like nervous thoughts.
Behind them, the river kept moving — pulling history downstream, carrying new seeds in every current.
Somewhere farther along, a train whistle echoed — familiar and distant.
The monsoon had returned, as it always did.
But so had they.