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He printed the letter. The ink was black, but to him, the curves of the बाराखडी seemed to shimmer with warmth. He folded the paper carefully, tucked it into an envelope, and wrote the address in his own hand.

Two weeks later, his phone rang. It was the village landline. Aaji’s voice, crackling and thin, came through. "Rohan," she said, and then paused. He heard her sniffle. "The letter came. I read it to the postman. Then I read it to the lady next door. Then I read it to the cow. Rohan… it felt like you were sitting right next to me, talking."

Tonight, however, was the deadline. He had promised Aaji he would write. Sighing, he clicked the link.

He closed his eyes, smiling.

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