Since that wedding night, my little house seemed to glow with a warmth that had never been there for years. There was no longer the sound of the wind blowing through the tin roof, chilling my heart, no more long nights of lying awake with the old radio playing the news. Instead, there was Meena’s light footsteps in the kitchen every morning, the sound of the kettle clattering, and her calling me up in a voice as warm as the early winter sun:

– “Rajiv, wake up and have some tea.”

We lived very simply. I still tutored maths to the neighborhood kids in the afternoons to earn some money. Meena grew flowers on the balcony, cleaned the house, and occasionally went into the kitchen to make some sweets from the traditional recipes she learned from her mother. On rainy days, I drove her to the post office, then stopped by the old familiar coffee shop. We sat for hours without saying much, just looking out at the street and holding hands under the table.

Meena gradually shed her reserved, fearful shell. She smiled more. She began to read the newspaper out loud, began to suggest that I dress more neatly, and one day even teased me:

– “Mr. Rajiv, you were a good student in the past, but why are you so picky when it comes to choosing a wife?”

I laughed, pretending to be angry, then pulled her into my arms again. Life is old but not old. The scars on her back are still there – but now they are not traces of pain, but evidence of strength. Every time she changes her clothes, I place a light kiss on those scars – as a silent promise: I love everything about her, even the most painful past.

One day, she sat pensively, looked at me and said:

– “If I hadn’t been married off that day… we would probably have three or four children by now, right?”

I didn’t answer. Just silently held her hand.

Time passed, I was 64 and Meena was 67. We grew older every day. She was still healthy, but one day when the weather changed, she was tired, had a headache, and her hands and feet were cold. I took care of her with everything I had – cooking soup, applying warm compresses, staying up all night to watch her sleep.

One early spring morning, I got up earlier than usual and went to the kitchen to make tea. When I returned to the room, I saw that she was still lying there. I walked closer. I called out but got no answer.

She had gone – gently, without pain. Her hand was still clutching the edge of the blanket, her face peaceful as if she were in a deep sleep.

I didn’t cry right away. I just sat down, took her hand, and placed it on my chest like that first night. The room was still. No sound. No tears. Just a deep emptiness that penetrated my veins.

Her funeral was simple and cozy. Many friends from the neighborhood came. Everyone bowed their heads silently, and everyone said: “She passed away happily. She will always be the most loved woman.”

I returned to that house, alone.

The flowers she planted on the balcony still bloom, the scent of morning tea still wafts in the wind. Every morning, I make two cups of tea. One cup is placed in front of her picture frame, the other I drink. I still chat with her, still tell her stories about the city, about her mischievous students.

People ask me if I feel lonely?

I smiled. No.

Because true love is not about how many years we live together. It is about how we cherish each other every day – from the look in our eyes, from the handshake, from the seemingly meaningless whispers.

I am not alone.

I am living the rest of my life – to love her, the way she deserves to be loved… even if it is only me. And I believe, somewhere, she is still sitting by the window, smiling at me with the same gentle eyes as before – the eyes of my first love that has returned and will never leave again.