The streets of Lahore buzzed with life, but Ayaan barely noticed. His thoughts were consumed by the letter, the name Zoya, and the address written on the fragile paper.
Rosewood Bookstore.
The shop was located in a quiet corner of the old city, nestled between ancient buildings that seemed frozen in time. When he arrived, the scent of aged paper and ink filled the air. The store had an old-world charm—wooden shelves stacked with books, a golden bell that chimed softly as he entered.
An elderly man stood behind the counter, adjusting his reading glasses. His face was wrinkled with time, but his eyes held a spark of wisdom.
"Salam, beta. How can I help you?"
Ayaan hesitated, gripping the letter in his pocket. "I'm looking for someone. A woman named Zoya. She… might have worked here before."
The old man's fingers froze mid-air as he turned to face Ayaan. A strange silence filled the shop.
"Zoya…" he whispered, as if the name carried the weight of something long lost.
Ayaan leaned forward. "You know her?"
The old man sighed and removed his glasses. "It's been many, many years… but yes. There was once a girl named Zoya who worked here. She loved books more than life itself." His voice softened. "She used to sit by that window every evening, reading and writing letters."
Ayaan's heartbeat quickened. Letters.
"Do you know what happened to her?"
The old man hesitated. "No one knows for sure. One night, in March 1974, she left the bookstore… and was never seen again."
Ayaan felt a shiver crawl down his spine. March 17, 1974. The exact date on the letter.
It was impossible. Zoya had disappeared fifty years ago—yet somehow, he had received a letter from her.
"Did she ever mention someone named Ayaan?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
The old man studied him for a long moment. Then, without a word, he turned and walked to the back of the shop. Ayaan watched as he pulled out an old wooden box, covered in dust.
"She left this behind," the old man murmured, handing it to Ayaan. "No one ever came to claim it."
Ayaan's fingers trembled as he opened the box. Inside, there were dozens of letters—all sealed, all addressed to the same person.
To Ayaan Mirza.
His breath caught in his throat.
This wasn't just a mystery anymore.
This was his past… waiting to be uncovered.