The lanes were winding, romantic and endless.
Snaking through them, nursing a melancholia that accompanies homecoming, the perfume hit her nose; of ferry rides, long evenings and jhalmuri.
She took a sharp turn and there they were.
It was embarrassing almost, walking in on Creation itself.
She was incomplete, vulnerable, bare.
God is dead but here was a bunch of fools trying to bring her back to life.
A smile crept up on her face, inadvertent.
Never managing to mend its flaws, the North always found a way to mend souls. ...