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"Kutte ne mujhe yeh diya," I muttered to the chai wallah. The dog gave me this.

I froze. "You read them?"

Inside wasn't a bone or garbage. It was a handwritten letter. A love letter. Dated five years ago.

I started writing notes back to the fictional Kabir in my diary. My cynical songs turned into hopeful poetry. The dog, Kallu, became my editor. He would bark once for "bad line" and twice for "keep going." On the third Thursday, I dragged myself to the bench mentioned in the letter. I brought a biryani for Kallu. I expected no one.

Not Zara.