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“Dust dances in the light like tiny ghosts of stories. I open a yellowed page— your handwriting from another lifetime. The shopkeeper pretends not to see my tears. He wraps the book in silence. I carry it home like a wound that refuses to heal” — Avijeet Das
Dust dances in the light
like tiny ghosts of stories.
I open a yellowed page—
your handwriting
from another lifetime. The shopkeeper pretends
not to see my tears.
He wraps the book
in silence.
I carry it home
like a wound
that refuses to heal