Aarav led her through winding alleys until they reached a small bookstore hidden among old buildings. The facade was covered in vines, and the worn wooden door seemed to promise adventures inside. Upon entering, Anjali felt the smell of old paper and spices, an unusual but comforting combination.
«This place isn’t well-known by tourists,» Aarav said as he walked toward a shelf full of old books. «It’s one of my refuges in the city. Here, time seems to stand still.»
Anjali looked around the shelves, her fingers brushing the spines of the dusty books. There was something magical about this place, a stillness that contrasted with the frenzy of the city outside. She picked a book at random and opened it, finding poetry written in Hindi. Although she didn’t understand all the words, the melody of the verses seemed to fit perfectly with the atmosphere.
«Do you come here often?» she asked, turning her gaze to Aarav, who was leafing through an old manuscript.
«Yes, especially when I need to think,» Aarav looked at her, his dark eyes calm. «Or when I need to escape.»
Anjali felt the depth of his words. There was something in Aarav that spoke of an untold story, of wounds that had not yet healed. Curiosity grew within her, along with a sense of affinity.
«Sometimes I feel like I’m escaping too,» Anjali admitted, almost without realizing she was saying it aloud.
Aarav looked up, surprised by her honesty. «What are you escaping from?»
Anjali took a deep breath, feeling that this moment, in this forgotten bookstore, was more than just a casual encounter. She was standing before someone who, in some way, understood her pain.
«From a life that doesn’t entirely belong to me,» she replied, whispering, as if afraid the walls would hear.
Aarav nodded slowly. «Then perhaps Varanasi has something for you too. Something more than just images.»
