“She had no plan. No destination. Just a quiet hope that wherever she landed… it would be better than where she fled. She didn’t need a plan. She needed peace. And sometimes, peace comes not in knowing where you’re going — but in knowing where you’ll never return.”

The train slows down. It was early morning. The station name appears blurry through the dusty window: “Shimla Junction.” Not a big city. Not too small either. Just enough to disappear in. Just enough to begin.

She steps down from the train, her dupatta brushes her face as the breeze greets her. She doesn’t know this town — and that’s the point. With only quiet eyes, she walks into the unknown. She walks slowly, aimlessly. No one is waiting. No familiar face. And for the first time, that feels like freedom.

After few hours walking; she found a café. A small, cozy café with wooden chairs and the smell of fresh coffee. She sits in a corner, not knowing what to do. Her fingers play with the wooden table underneath. The owner — a woman in her late 50s named Swara — watches her from behind the counter. Kind eyes. Quiet instincts. Swara asked her softly “You look tired, beta. Traveling alone?”

Shes nods hesitantly, unsure if she should speak. There’s a flicker of fear in her eyes — the kind you carry when you’ve trusted the world too many times and been burned for it. Swara doesn't go far. She lingers near the counter, wiping down a tray that didn’t really need cleaning. She watches out of the corner of her eye, careful not to crowd the girl, but not ready to walk away either.

A few minutes pass in silence.

Then Swara walks back, this time slower, and more casual, holding two cups of steaming Coffee.
She places one in front of her. “No charge. Just thought you might need something warm.”

She blinks. Her fingers hover near the cup but don’t touch it. She studies Swara’s face cautiously, like she’s still deciding if it’s safe.

Swara smiles, noticing. “It’s alright. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. Sometimes sitting is enough.”

She finally speaks — a soft, hesitant voice. “Why are you being kind?”

Swara pauses, then sits in the chair opposite her. “Because someone once was, when I needed it.”

That answer seems to settle something. The girl lowers her eyes, murmurs, “Thanks.”

They sit like that for a while — strangers, bound by silence and the quiet safety of an untouched café. Swara doesn’t ask questions. She doesn’t try to guess the girl’s story. But after a few sips of coffee, the girl says, barely above a whisper, “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Swara nods. “That’s okay. You found here.”

The clock ticks softly in the background. The air smells like cardamom and something new. Something starting. The warmth of the coffee seeps into her hands as she cups the glass tighter, holding it like an anchor. Her shoulders begin to loosen. The silence between them is no longer heavy — it feels like a place to breathe.

Swara watches her gently, not pressing. She’s seen enough wandering faces to know which ones need time. She finally speaks again.
“My name is…….. Sia,” she says her name with a pause, eyes still fixed on the glass. “I... left home last night.”

Swara doesn’t react with surprise or pity. Just nods. “Alright, Sia. I’m Swara.”

Sia glances up, searching her face again — still cautious, but something in her has softened.

“I thought I’d feel scared,” she admits. “But it’s... different. Like I’m floating.”

“Floating feels like freedom at first,” Swara replies quietly. “But it can also feel lonely when you don’t have somewhere to land.”

Sia swallows, looking out the window. “I don’t want to go back.”

“Then don’t,” Swara says simply. “Not until you’re ready.”

A pause. The café hums around them, the low crackle of the old radio playing some forgotten song.

“You can stay here a while,” Swara continues. “There’s a spare room upstairs. Belonged to my sister. She’s... gone now. But the space is still hers — warm, kind. Like her.”

Sia looks stunned. “You don’t even know me.”

Swara shrugs. “Maybe not. But I know the look in your eyes. I had it once too.”

Tears threaten to rise in Sia’s eyes, but she blinks them away. She nods, once, slowly.

“Thank you.”

Swara smiles softly. “Come. Let me show you the room. And after that... maybe you help me close up tonight?”

Sia manages a small smile in return. Not much — but the first one in a long time.

And as she follows Swara up the narrow wooden stairs, something inside her shifts — not healed, not whole — but grounded. Not floating anymore.

The room upstairs is small but full of quiet comfort — faded floral curtains, a bookshelf with forgotten paperbacks, and a window that catches the morning sun just right. Sia runs her hand over the edge of the old desk, the wood smooth with time.

Swara stands by the door, arms crossed gently. “It’s not much. But it’s safe.”

Sia nods, her voice low. “That’s more than I had yesterday.”

The next morning comes with the scent of brewing coffee and the soft clink of crockery downstairs. Sia wakes before the sun is fully up, drawn by the rhythm of a place that feels alive.

She makes her way down slowly, unsure if she’s intruding. Swara is behind the counter already, her hair tied up, humming something under her breath as she wipes down the glass display. She looks up and smiles.

“Hungry?”
Sia shrugs. “A little.”

Swara gestures toward a stool. “Sit. Toast and eggs coming up.”

Sia hesitates, then moves behind the counter instead. “I can help.”

Swara raises an eyebrow but says nothing. She passes her a dishcloth.

They fall into an easy rhythm — one that needs no instruction. Sia wipes down tables, clumsily at first, but more surely with each one. Swara watches quietly, letting her settle in at her own pace.

By the time the first customer walks in — an old man with a gentle smile — Sia is already behind the counter, pouring water into glasses.

Swara introduces her with a simple, “This is Sia. She’s helping me out for a while. And Sia, he’s Mr Hitesh, our regular customer.” The old man nods politely and smiled. Sia gives him a small smile and disappears into the kitchen.

Days pass like that — quietly, gently. Sia started calling Swara as “Swara Aunty”. Sia helps around the café, sweeping floors, arranging cups. She slowly begins speaking a little with regular customers. She watches kids laugh outside. She starts writing in an old notebook she found in the back room. One day, she laughs — just once — when a child spills chai on her dupatta and apologizes like a cartoon villain.

Sometimes, in the evenings, they sit on the back steps with cups of tea. Swara speaks in stories — of her sister, of the early days of the café, of the time a crow flew in through the front door and caused chaos. Sia listens. She hasn’t told her own story yet. But she’s getting closer. One evening, as the sun dips behind the hills, casting a golden glow across the café floor, Sia finally says:

“My mother never listened. Not really. Everything I did was wrong to her.”

Swara doesn’t speak. She just sips her tea. Swara was a listener which Sia needed.