The neem tree leaned,
its shadow folding over my sandals.
I waited by the roadside,
a bag of sweets
growing warm in my hand.

The call to prayer
had ended.
A boy passed, dragging a kite string.

She came.
Dust on her dupatta.
No earrings.
Eyes like the river after rain.

I didn’t speak at first.
A goat kicked at a plastic bucket.
A car horn blinked through the silence.

Then,
three words —
small as mustard seeds
spilled into the wind.

She nodded.
A bird shifted in the eaves.
Nothing else moved.

That evening,
even my shadow
walked beside me
without sound.

- THE END -

© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.