Echoes of Her

The streets breathe in slow rhythms here—warm air curling around rusted shutters, market voices dissolving into afternoon hush. Hiranya stands still, fingers brushing against the cool metal of a vintage camera. The weight of time lingers in her hands, a quiet history pressed into its worn edges.

Keerthi moves through the old lanes, silk brushing against stone, the scent of marigolds heavy in the air. She glances back, laughter catching in her throat, the kind that fades before it fully forms. The city hums beneath their feet—memories stitched into every cracked pavement, every fading signboard, every glance exchanged between strangers.

A moment: light spills through a broken awning, dust swirls golden. Hiranya lifts the camera, framing Keerthi in the hush of it all—frozen between past and present, between who they were and who they are becoming.

Alankara weaves its story through them—fabric whispering secrets, silhouettes tracing echoes of another time. The world does not pause, but here, in this instant, it almost feels like it could.

And then, a shutter clicks. A memory is held. A silence lingers.