The next morning, A&M Store stayed dark. For the first time since its opening, the shutters didn't rise. A handwritten note hung outside: "Closed for Maintenance — Back in 48 Hours Thank you for your patience. – A&M"
Some customers sighed and walked away. Some clicked photos, curious. Some regulars messaged Mira, hoping everything was okay. But inside the flat, for the first time in weeks…
there was silence. A healing kind of silence. Mira woke later than usual, the sunlight warming her cheek. She blinked slowly, realizing with a strange relief:
She didn't have to run to the store. She didn't have to force a smile. She didn't have to hold anything together. Not today. Arun was in the kitchen, slicing apples, quietly humming a tune he had picked up in Lahaul. When she approached, his face brightened—not dramatically, but with that soft, warm shift only he had for her.
"You slept," he said gently. "For nine hours." She rubbed her eyes. "I forgot what that felt like. "He handed her a plate, then brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "You looked like you finally let the mountain air reach you." Mira laughed, a soft, surprised sound. "Maybe you brought some back.
"They ate by the window, the world outside rushing at its usual chaotic pace while theirs felt suspended—slower, calmer, almost intimate. "So," Arun said, sipping chai, "what do you want to do today?" She stared at him. "No customers? No deliveries? No vendor calls?"
"No," he smiled. "Just us." Her shoulders dropped again—this time in relief, not fatigue. "I want to… breathe," she whispered. "Then let's breathe," he replied. By noon, they visited the shop. = The engineers were inside, chipping away plaster, the wall stripped open like a wound finally being cleaned. Dust floated in the air. The shelves were pushed aside. The spices were covered with cloth sheets. Arun's jaw clenched; the sight hurt him more than he expected.
"It looks worse before it becomes better," the engineer reminded. "I know," he murmured. But he stayed until Mira tugged his hand. "Come. Let them work." They stepped back into the sunlight, and Mira wrapped her shawl tighter. "Arun… it's strange," she said softly. "Seeing the store wounded." He looked at her.
You felt this alone for days, didn't you?" She didn't speak; her silence was answer enough. Arun took her hand in a slow, steady gesture—one that held gratitude, apology, and tenderness all at once. "I'm here now," he said simply. Mira looked down at their intertwined fingers. "Maybe this break… is for us too." He smiled. "Maybe it's exactly for us."
They spent the afternoon walking through Lodhi Garden, a place they hadn't visited since their early days in Delhi. The winter breeze brushed their cheeks; birds dipped low, scattering fallen leaves. Mira inhaled deeply, letting the clean air fill the spaces stress had been occupying "It feels like the world is bigger again," she whispered. "It always was," Arun said. "We just forgot to look."
She slowed, watching a couple sitting on the grass, heads close together. Something in her chest tightened—not in jealousy, but in remembrance. "Arun…" she said softly. He slowed beside her.
"Yes?" "I missed us," she murmured. "Not just working together… but us."
He studied her, understanding instantly. "Come here," he said. He stepped in closer, gently taking both her hands. The garden noise faded into a soft hum. Mira looked up at him, her eyes tired but full.
"You carried the store," he whispered. "And you carried the hope," she replied. They stood there for a long moment—no rush, no chaos, no business. Just two people rediscovering a softness they had put aside to survive the past months. When he touched her cheek, she leaned into his palm with a quiet sigh. "You're still tired," he said.
"Only physically," she whispered. "Emotionally… I feel lighter with you here." He brushed his thumb across her cheekbone, slow and tender. "And I feel steadier with you." Their foreheads met, warm and gentle. Not desperate, not urgent—just deeply familiar. A breath shared. A moment stitched back together.
Later, they sat on the grass, Mira leaning back against Arun's chest as the sun dipped behind the trees. His arms wrapped around her naturally, as though they had been waiting months to settle in that position again.
"When the store was drowning," Mira whispered, "I felt like I was drowning too. I kept thinking… what if I'm not strong enough?" "You were strong enough," Arun said quietly. "But you shouldn't have had to be alone."
Her fingertips found his. "You came home just when I needed you." He kissed the top of her head, slow and soft. "And you kept everything alive just when I was needed elsewhere." The breeze carried their breaths away; the moment lingered warm. "We're good together," she said. "We're better together," he corrected. "And the store?" "We'll rebuild that too."
That night, back in the flat, Mira lit a small lamp instead of switching on the harsh lights. The room felt warmer, softer. She looked at Arun, and for the first time in many days, she smiled the way she used to—a smile without weight. "We don't get many pauses," she whispered. He stepped toward her. "Then let's make this one count."
She reached for his hand, and the quiet that settled around them wasn't empty—it was full. Full of relief. Full of unspoken gratitude. Full of romance that had no rush, no performance—just a steady, peaceful closeness. The kind of closeness that made the world outside fade. The kind that said: Even when the store cracks… we don't.