The drizzle turned into a torrent, sheets of water crashing down, blurring the city into a watercolor smear. Arjun’s shirt stuck to his skin, the photograph trembling in his grip. “Where are you, Meera?” he murmured, the words lost in the roar. Lightning split the sky, and for a moment, he thought he saw her—standing at the edge of the roof, her silhouette framed against the storm

The sky above Mumbai was a swollen gray, heavy with secrets it couldn’t hold much longer. Arjun stood on the rooftop of his crumbling chawl, the air thick with the promise of rain. He clutched a faded photograph in his hand—a young woman laughing, her dupatta fluttering in a breeze long past. Meera. Ten years had slipped by since she’d vanished from his life, yet the rain always brought her back.

It started with a drizzle, tentative drops tapping the tin roof like a forgotten melody. Arjun closed his eyes, letting the sound pull him into memory. They’d met during a downpour, two strangers caught under the awning of a chai stall near Marine Drive. She’d been soaked, her green kurta clinging to her like a second skin, and he’d offered her his umbrella. “Only if you share it,” she’d teased, her eyes glinting with mischief. That was Meera—bold, alive, a spark that lit up even the dreariest monsoon day.

They’d spent months together after that, chasing the rains. Picnics on Juhu Beach turned into drenched dances under thunderous skies. Late-night walks through the flooded lanes of Bandra, where she’d splash him playfully and he’d pretend to be annoyed. She loved the rain, said it washed away the world’s lies. “It’s honest,” she’d whisper, her voice soft against the patter of drops. Arjun had fallen hard, dreaming of a future where every monsoon was theirs.

Then, one July evening, she was gone. No note, no call—just an empty flat and a silence louder than any storm. He’d searched for her, asked her friends, haunted the places they’d loved. Nothing. The police shrugged; people disappear in Mumbai all the time. But Arjun couldn’t let go. Every rainy day, he’d climb to this rooftop, waiting for the sky to give him answers.

The drizzle turned into a torrent, sheets of water crashing down, blurring the city into a watercolor smear. Arjun’s shirt stuck to his skin, the photograph trembling in his grip. “Where are you, Meera?” he murmured, the words lost in the roar. Lightning split the sky, and for a moment, he thought he saw her—standing at the edge of the roof, her silhouette framed against the storm.

He blinked, heart pounding. It wasn’t a mirage. A woman stood there, drenched, her back to him. Her hair was shorter, her frame thinner, but the way she tilted her head—it was her. “Meera?” he called, voice cracking.

She turned slowly, and the years fell away. Her face was older, lines etched where laughter once lived, but those eyes—still fierce, still hers—locked onto his. “Arjun,” she said, barely audible over the rain.

He stumbled forward, questions tumbling out. “Where did you go? Why didn’t you tell me? I thought—” He stopped, choking on the weight of a decade’s grief.

Meera stepped closer, water streaming down her face. “I had to leave. My family… they found out about us. My father threatened to ruin you, your job, everything. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“You should’ve told me,” he said, anger flaring. “I would’ve fought for us.”

She shook her head. “You don’t know what they’re capable of. I married someone else, Arjun. I had to. But I never stopped—” Her voice broke, and she looked away, toward the rain-swept horizon. The words hit him like a punch. Married. Another life, another man. Yet here she was, standing in the rain with him. “Why now?” he asked, softer this time.

“My husband died last year,” she said. “I’ve been free since, but trapped too—by guilt, by memories. I heard you still come here when it rains. I had to see you, just once.”

The storm raged around them, a chorus to their silence. Arjun wanted to hate her, to scream at her for the years stolen, but all he felt was the ache of love unspent. He reached out, brushing a wet strand of hair from her face. “You’re here now,” he said simply.

Meera’s lips trembled into a smile, fragile but real. “The rain brought me back.”

They stood there, two souls caught in a downpour, the past washing away with every drop. The city blurred beyond them—horn blasts, flickering lights, the chaos of life—but on that rooftop, time paused. Arjun didn’t ask what came next; he didn’t need to. The rain had given him this moment, and for now, that was enough.

As the storm softened to a whisper, Meera slipped her hand into his. They stayed until the clouds parted, revealing a sky bruised with stars. The photograph slipped from Arjun’s fingers, carried off by a puddle, but he didn’t chase it. He had her now, not just a memory trapped in paper.

The rain had remembered them, and in its honesty, they found their way back.