Every evening at exactly 6:30, Mrs. Desai laid out two cups of tea on the small wooden table by her window.
One cup for herself.
One for her husband, who hadn’t come home in seven years.
Neighbours whispered. Some pitied her. Some smirked. But no one ever questioned her routine.
She still ironed his clothes every Sunday.
Still watered the bonsai he once brought from Darjeeling.
Still believed in his promise: “I’ll be back before you miss me too much.”
He was a journalist. Last seen boarding a train to report on a flood. After that, silence.
One dusky August evening, the doorbell rang.
Old wooden legs shuffled across the hall. Her hands trembled as she opened the door.
There he stood—hair grayer, eyes heavier, but smile just the same.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Mrs. Desai looked at the table.
Two cups. Still warm.
She smiled, as if the universe had just nodded in approval.
“You're not late,” she said. “Tea’s ready.”
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