by Shruthi

It is a dark, foggy night. I can hear the sound of instruments playing far away in the Tea House. She would be there now, singing.

Her rich, deep voice would be enchanting customers. Her face, painted pale as usual, with gaudy red lipstick, would be the point of attention. I can imagine her clearly in her soft, silky dress and the way she would look up at me, when I enter.

I rush towards the Tea House. I have to meet her there tonight. I clutch the present that I bought for her.

The Tea House is deserted. There is not a single soul. I walk inside and look at her body lying in the centre. She looks exactly like she did the day she died. I place my present on her body and murmur softly: "It is the ring you always wanted. I finally bought it."

Her lips move slightly. The sound of the instruments appears once again. She is singing a thank you song for me.

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