Delhi looked different when Arun returned—not because the city had changed, but because his eyes had. After eight days in Lahaul's cold valleys, the city's warm dust felt heavier, thicker, almost personal. The roar of the traffic, the paan-stained pavements, the impatient honking—everything felt like it was pulling him forward and holding him back at the same time.
He clutched the folder of new contracts, each page filled with promises from the mountains. For the first time since they opened A&M, he felt like he was bringing home something deeper than supplies. He was bringing back hope. But there was one thing he feared more than the supply crisis:
What he might find when he walked into the store. When he reached the market street, he stopped for a moment.
There it was—A&M Store. The small shop with the bay window now looked… alive.
The chalkboard Mira had created— "Where Your Food Travels from Today"—was filled with colourful arrows pointing to different Himachal regions. Customers were inside, not rushed, but lingering. Someone was taking a picture of the "Farmer Stories" wall. Someone else was asking Prem about the wild caraway—Prem! —who was explaining the difference between regular and mountain varieties with surprising confidence.
Arun's heart softened. She had done it. She had actually held Delhi together. But when he stepped inside… he saw the truth behind the pretty picture. Mira's smile. It was there, bright and textbook-perfect—but it was stretched thin. Too thin. The kind of smile someone wears when they want everyone else to stay calm, even if they don't have any calm left inside them.
Her eyes had faint shadows. Her posture was straight but tired. Her energy felt like a candle burning past midnight. Mira didn't see him at first. She was arranging jars, explaining discounts, and simultaneously calming down an impatient customer. Arun waited.
When she finally turned and saw him, there was a heartbeat of silence. Then she breathed out—slow, shaky, like something inside her finally loosened. She didn't run to him like movies show.
She didn't burst into tears. She simply walked to him, stopped right in front of him, and whispered:
"You're home." Those two words were more powerful than any embrace. They slipped into the back office, closing the door behind them. The second the door clicked, Mira leaned against him. Not dramatically. Not romantically. Just naturally—like her body had been waiting for him to return so it could finally rest. "You did it," Arun whispered, brushing her hair back gently.
"I tried," she murmured. "But it was… a lot."
He held her cheeks. "There's so much I want to tell you." "Me too," she said. But neither spoke for a moment. They just stayed there, forehead to forehead, breathing in the relief of togetherness after eight days of managing worlds apart. Finally, Arun whispered, "The mountains said yes."
Mira's eyes glistened. "Then we're saved?" "We're not just saved," he said softly. "We're stronger." Her shoulders dropped—like she had been carrying the entire store on them and someone had finally lifted the weight.
They sat on the floor, leaning against the shelves, as Arun opened the folder. "These people," he said, tapping the papers, "they're real. They're honest. They're passionate. They don't want shortcuts. They want to stay traditional." Mira smiled weakly. "So, they're like you." "And like you," he added.
He told her about the widow with smoked barley flour. The women making herb salt. The wild caraway. The sea buckthorn couple. The black rajma grower. The remote cluster of honey and buckwheat producers. Mira listened with quiet awe. "Arun… this is not just supply," she whispered.
"This is culture." He nodded. "This is exactly what A&M should stand for."
"Now tell me everything about Delhi," he said. Her smile faltered—not because she didn't want to share, but because she didn't know where to begin. "It looks great outside," Arun said softly. "But I can see you're tired." She exhaled slowly. "Customers kept coming. Some days, the line reached the stairs. People were asking for things we didn't have. Some complained. Some left bad reviews. Some waited and encouraged us. It was unpredictable."
"And you handled it alone," he said, guilt settling into his chest. "I wasn't alone," she said. "Prem helped. A lot. But I missed you. I missed us handling things together." She rubbed her forehead.
"There were moments I thought the store would collapse. And moments I thought maybe I would."
Arun pulled her close. "You didn't break," he whispered. "You kept us alive." "But it cost something," she admitted quietly. "A part of me feels… stretched." Arun rested his chin on her hair. "I'm here now. We'll rebuild the rhythm. Together." Later that evening, Arun went outside to help customers while Mira took a breather in the back. He saw what she had built— The connection with regular buyers. The trust. The renewed sense of purpose. But he also saw the missing piece:
Her. A&M was working beautifully, but Mira was fraying at the edges.
When the shutters rolled down at 9 PM, Mira came out, her hair tied back messily, her expression softening when she saw him still helping Prem count the cash drawer. He turned to her. "This place is standing because of you." She walked up, placed her hand over his on the counter, and said: "And it's growing because of both of us.
They walked back to their flat, their pace slows, their hands occasionally brushing. The city lights flickered against the broken pavement, casting long shadows. Mira finally slipped her fingers into his—not tightly, not urgently, just enough to say: "You were the missing half all week."
Arun squeezed her hand gently. "And you were the strength I didn't know I needed." She leaned her head on his shoulder. "I hope," she whispered, "we're not always tested like this." He kissed the top of her hair. "Even if we are," he said softly, "we'll face it together."
Back in their flat, Mira finally smiled—fully this time. Not the stretched one she wore for customers, but the real one. The warm one. The one that only belonged to him. Arun unpacked the samples he brought from the mountains—tiny jars, little brown packets, handwritten notes from farmers.
Mira touched each one carefully, her eyes glowing. "This," she whispered, "this is our future. "Arun took her hand. "No," he corrected gently. "This is our beginning again." She looked at him, tired but full-hearted. "Welcome home, Arun." He smiled.