Chapter -1

"The Voice She Shouldn't Have Dialed"

The phone rang once.

Then again.

And he let it.

Not because he feared who might be calling.

But because he feared who wouldn't be.

Ansh Mehra didn't answer unknown numbers. He hadn't in years. His world was carefully structured: voiceovers in the morning, editing till dusk, and silence after sunset. Silence was safer than memory.

But that ringtone—it had a rhythm. Familiar in a way he couldn't name, like the last line of a song you once loved but forgot how to sing.

The call ended.

He exhaled.

Then, it rang again.

He stared at the screen. Still no name. Just a number. German. Berlin local.

And still… he picked up.

"Hello?"

Three seconds of static.

Then, quietly—almost afraid of being real:

"Ansh?"

Everything in him tightened. Like his bones remembered a voice his mind had buried.

"Elina?"

The name came out harsh, like a cut that hadn't healed right.

"Yeah," she said. Her voice hadn't changed. That made it worse.

There was a pause. Heavy. Long. Loaded with things left unsaid for far too long.

"I… I'm sorry to call you like this."

"You shouldn't have," he replied flatly.

"I know. But I didn't know who else to—"

"You didn't know who else to call?" He laughed once, bitter and soft. "I thought you forgot I existed."

She didn't answer.

"Why now?" he asked, softer this time.

"I'm getting married," she said.

Silence.

He could've cut the call right there. Should've. But he didn't. Because some wounds itch when they're almost healed.

She continued, "Before that… I just… I need to take one last trip. And I don't want to go alone."

Ansh blinked. "You want me to… what?"

"Come with me. Just a few cities. Few days. That's it. I promise."

"That's insane," he said.

"I know."

"You disappeared."

"I know."

"I waited. I called. I begged."

"I know," she said again. This time, it broke.

He didn't realize he was gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white.

"I'm not who I used to be, Elina."

"Neither am I."

He looked at his left hand. It had started again. The tremor. Subtle, but there.

"I can't—"

"It's just a train ride, Ansh. One trip. Then we go back to our separate lives. Please."

There was something in her voice.

Not desperation.

Not love.

Just… the kind of quiet that came when you were holding yourself together with invisible thread.

He hated that he understood it.

"Where?"

"Berlin. Then Prague. Then Meherfeld. Maybe Vienna in between."

Meherfeld. Of course. The town they used to talk about retiring to when they were barely twenty-three.

He hadn't thought of Meherfeld in years. And now, it sat on his tongue like a curse.

"Why Meherfeld?" he asked.

"You'll know when we get there."

Ansh didn't say yes. But he packed that night.

It wasn't much. Just one bag. Two jackets. Painkillers he didn't label. And gloves—always gloves.

In the morning, he looked in the mirror and tried to smile.

His face looked fine. Normal. No one could tell. That was the whole point.

He flexed his fingers. The right hand responded. The left… slower.

He put on the gloves.

Berlin Hauptbahnhof was cold. Not snowy, not stormy—just quietly grey. Like someone had drained the world of contrast.

He saw her before she saw him.

Same coat. Same hair. Older, maybe. But not really.

She was facing away from him, watching trains come and go. Like she hadn't already chosen which direction to take.

"Hey," he said, walking up.

She turned.

"Hey," she replied, a little breathless.

They stood there, two ghosts pretending to be people again.

"You look... the same," she said.

"You don't," he replied. It wasn't an insult. Just truth.

She smiled—only barely. "Thanks for coming."

"I still haven't decided if I have," he said.

The train announced boarding.

She nodded toward it.

"Let's decide inside."

The compartment was quiet. First-class, but not luxurious. Just enough space to sit without touching. Just enough room for distance.

They didn't speak for the first hour.

Outside, Berlin blurred into forests. Inside, silence sat between them like a third passenger.

"Do you hate me?" she asked finally.

He didn't answer right away.

"Every day for two years," he said. "Then it faded. Then I hated myself for letting it fade."

Elina looked down.

"I wanted to write to you," she said.

"Why didn't you?"

"I was scared."

"Of me?"

"Of what I'd become."

Ansh turned to the window. His reflection stared back.

"You could've just said goodbye."

"I didn't know how."

"You vanished."

"I know."

He looked at her.

"You don't get to vanish and then ask for a reunion tour."

"I'm not asking for forever," she whispered. "Just... a few days."

"That's all I have left anyway," he murmured.

She didn't hear it. Or pretended not to.

They reached Prague by evening.

Same city. Different version.

She checked them into a quiet hotel off the main square.

Two rooms.

But their silences stayed in the same hallway.

That night, Ansh sat by the window, watching the city lights flicker like half-dead stars.

He opened his notebook. Not to write—just to stare.

His fingers didn't want to hold the pen tonight.

He didn't force them.

Elina knocked.

He opened the door without a word.

She held two mugs.

"Coffee?" she offered.

He took one.

They sat on the floor, backs to opposite walls.

"I missed this," she said.

"This?" he asked.

"You. Saying nothing. And still being louder than everyone else."

He didn't reply.

His hand trembled again.

He put the mug down before she saw.

"I'm not who I used to be either," she said softly.

He looked up.

"Then why do I feel exactly the same?"

She had no answer.

He waited for her to leave.

She waited for him to ask her to stay.

Neither happened.

Just like before.

[End of Chapter 1]

Chapter 2 – The City Where We Almost Stayed

The coffee had gone cold between them.

Ansh shifted, slowly setting his cup down on the carpet. Elina was still sitting against the opposite wall, legs tucked in, hands wrapped around the mug like she needed to hold on to something—anything—that didn't shake.

The silence wasn't heavy.

It was practiced.

Two people who had become fluent in not speaking.

"How long will this be?" he asked finally.

Elina looked up. "The trip?"

He nodded.

"Four cities. Five, maybe. Depends if you leave early."

"I might."

"I know."

She looked tired. Not the kind that sleep could fix. The kind that sat in your bones.

He rubbed his left hand slowly. The fingers had started to feel dull again. Not painful—just distant. Like they didn't belong to him anymore.

She didn't notice. Or if she did, she didn't ask.

They returned to their rooms in silence.

No goodnight.

No doors slammed.

Just a click. And then quiet.

Ansh stood by the mirror in the dim yellow light, pulled off his gloves, and studied his hands.

Left hand—fingers slow, weak grip. Same as yesterday. Slightly worse than last week.

He picked up a pen from the table and tried to write a single line in his notebook.

The pen slipped halfway through. His wrist trembled.

He set it down and opened the drawer. Pulled out the envelope the doctor had given him last Tuesday.

"Progressive." "Irreversible." Words that had stopped sounding medical and started sounding personal.

He shoved the paper back inside. Out of sight was easier.

Next morning, she knocked on his door. Light. Hesitant.

He opened it, already dressed.

"Train's in two hours," she said.

He nodded.

She noticed the gloves but didn't mention them.

Instead, she asked, "Breakfast?"

He hesitated. Then nodded again.

They sat at a small café near the station. Not the one tourists flocked to, but the kind where old men played cards and the radio crackled in Czech.

Elina stirred her tea longer than necessary. Ansh sipped his coffee in small, precise movements.

"I didn't think you'd come," she said finally.

"I didn't plan to."

"Then why?"

He looked out the window. A tram passed by, dragging fog in its wake.

"Because when someone disappears from your life," he said slowly, "you don't expect them to come back. And if they do… you answer. Even if you shouldn't."

She let that settle.

"I didn't come back to stay," she said.

He raised an eyebrow. "Didn't think you did."

"I came because I needed to know if I was making the right decision."

"You're marrying him." His tone was flat.

She nodded.

"Do you love him?"

She didn't answer immediately.

"He's good to me," she said instead.

"That's not what I asked."

"I don't know if I believe in that kind of love anymore."

He studied her face for a moment. "Then maybe you shouldn't be marrying anyone."

She smiled, faint and sad. "That's why I called you."

The train to their next city—Brno—was almost empty.

They sat facing each other, the landscape rolling by slowly behind the glass.

For a while, neither spoke.

Then Elina asked, "Do you remember the apartment we saw here?"

"In Prague?"

She nodded. "Two rooms, high windows, peeling yellow walls."

"You said it had character."

"You said it had mold."

He allowed a small smirk.

"I used to think if we had taken it… maybe things would've been different."

"Maybe," he said. "Or maybe we would've broken down sooner."

She looked out the window.

"You ever think about it?"

"Every version of it."

When the train stopped for a brief ten-minute halt, Ansh stepped off onto the platform to stretch his legs. The cold bit at his fingers even through the gloves.

He tried flexing them. Only half responded.

He turned away from the crowd and leaned against the wall near the restroom, trying to shake the sensation back into his hand.

He didn't hear her approach.

"You okay?" she asked.

He stiffened. "Yeah. Just the cold."

"You always used to forget your gloves."

"Not anymore."

She didn't push. Just stood beside him.

"You're quieter than I remember," she said softly.

"You're not," he replied.

She glanced at him. "Is that a complaint?"

"No," he said. "Just an observation."

Back on the train, the atmosphere shifted.

Softer. More loaded.

She reached into her bag and pulled out an old journal. The same brown-leather one she used to carry everywhere.

"I still write sometimes," she said.

He looked at it. "Same stories?"

"No. Different endings now."

"You ever write about me?"

She hesitated. Then: "I used to. Not anymore."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't like how they ended."

That night, in the new hotel in Brno, Ansh sat on the floor again. Habit, maybe. Or comfort.

Elina knocked.

He didn't ask her in. She came anyway.

This time, she didn't bring coffee.

Just silence.

She sat next to him, not across. Close, but not touching.

"Why did we fall apart?" she asked suddenly.

He didn't answer.

She tried again. "Was it time? Life? Me?"

He looked at her.

"It was everything," he said. "And it was nothing."

She leaned her head back against the wall. "Do you think we could've survived it?"

He took a long breath. "We didn't."

When she left the room, he stayed there. Lights off. Eyes open.

And somewhere, beneath the numbness in his hand and the sharpness in his chest,

was a memory of a city they almost stayed in.

And the love they almost got right.

[End of Chapter 2]