Her husband, Raman, had become a creature of the night shift at the bank’s processing center. He left at nine, returned at dawn, a ghost in his own home. Their conversations had shrunk to notes on the fridge: "Milk finished. Pay electric bill." Love, once a garden, had become a dry well they were both too tired to dig.
He smiled—a gentle, moon-like smile. “Amma, I didn’t fall in love with you. I fell in love with the woman who still had a song left in her chest. Go sing it to the right man.”
“Chandran sir… I’m sorry.”
The first time their eyes met, Saroja looked away. The second time, she nodded. The third time, he stopped.
“Or less lonely?”
He turned and walked away, humming Mohanam . The night swallowed his white veshti.
“Can we do this again?” she asked.
He nodded slowly.