In the quiet hours

Dear M,

Tonight the streetlight outside flickered like it was trying to tell me something. I was walking back from that chai stall near MG Road—the one with the old man who remembers everyone's order—and I passed the mural you painted last Diwali, the one with the peacock feathers. It's faded now, but still brighter than the neon signs around it.

I sat on my balcony with a cup gone cold, thinking about that evening we spent arguing over brushstrokes and biryani portions. You said art should be messy. I said it should last. We were both wrong, I think.

The rain's washing the city clean, and I'm writing because I miss the sound of your laugh cutting through traffic. Not every day, but nights like this, when the world's asleep and the streets whisper. Take care of that mural. I'll visit when the colors come back.

Yours, in the quiet hours,
R.P.