He started calling them vennira iravugal —pale nights, bleached of color and pretense. On the ninth night, the chair was empty.

Every pale night, he sits on his balcony, alone but not lonely. Somewhere in a darker town, he imagines her painting new maps, new hours.

"I'm Meera," she said. Her voice was soft, like static from an old radio. "And I've been watching you too."

"Aditya— I found a job in a town where the nights are darker. Where I don't need to stay pale. But I left you the silence. Use it to hear yourself. You were never broken. You were just listening to the wrong frequency. — Meera P.S. The map of our city exists. I painted it. It's in the last drawer of your desk. You left your balcony door open once, and I snuck in. Sorry. Not sorry." Aditya found the map. It wasn't a city of roads and buildings. It was a city of hours —2:47 a.m., 3:15, 4:00—each one labeled with a memory. Their conversations were drawn as rivers. Their silences as lakes.