My bare feet touched something wet and soft, tickling at my feet was an open field with green luscious grass for miles, a gentle breeze carrying the sweet scent of blooming flowers, a symphony of buzzing bees and chirping birds filled the air, lush greenery surrounded me, and right at the center of it was a woman. This scene felt familiar, like I have been here in a dream.

Is this a dream? Where am I? Did the car hit me? Am I dead?

I walked towards the young woman, I felt a sense of familiarity, like I had seen her somewhere. She was looking at me with a smile that said 'I know you'.

"Do I know you?" I asked the woman, who was still smiling at me.

"No, But I know you." she replied

"What is this place? How did I get her? Is this Heaven? Am I dead or something?"

"You could call this place heaven, but you aren't dead. Are you disappointed?" she replied, looking at my partly disappointed partly confused face and started walking away from me, "Come walk with me."

"I don't understand. I want to go home" I said, reluctantly following behind her.

"Do you believe in reincarnation?" she asked me.

"No," I said firmly.

"Why?

"Because, it is said when you are reborn again, you are born around people from your previous life. And I don't want to be born again, around people from my previous life... I mean this life." I don't want to be born again around my mom, or my dad.

She stopped and looked at me with sad moist eyes, "wh-...why do you say that?" A tear slid down her cheek, a stark contrast to the joyous scene around us. My breath hitched. In that moment, the young woman wasn't just familiar, she was a mirror image of myself, ten years older, with eyes that held the same pain and longing I felt.

"Because sometimes," she said, her voice thick with emotion, "sometimes the people you miss the most need you to forgive them, even if they never apologize."

The world swam before my eyes. My mother. This was my mother, not reincarnated, but somehow existing here, in this in-between place. A million questions swirled in my head, but all I could manage was a choked whisper, "Aai?" Aai, here? But how? My anger, buried for so long, flared anew. She reached out, her hand cool and comforting against mine. "I made a mistake, Chaitra. A terrible one. But I never stopped thinking about you, about your father."

"Then why didn't you come back? All those years, we could have..." My voice trailed off, choked with the emotions I'd buried for so long. A tear escaped, tracing a glistening path down her cheek. "There are things you don't understand, my little Chaitra," she said, her voice thick with emotion.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"Things you wouldn't have understood then. But perhaps, now..." She reached out, her hand hovering over mine.

It was a younger hand than I remembered, smooth and unmarred by age. My own hand trembled as I met hers. It was warm, a familiar warmth that chased away the chill that had settled in my heart.

"Why are you here? What is this place?" I asked her, "This is your memory, don't you remember?" She held my hand as if to make me remember, but no memory of this place came to mind, and suddenly as if i was dreaming while awake, a glimpse of memory flashed, The memory was faint, but unmistakable - me as a child, sitting on the lap of the woman holding my hand now, her voice melodic as she read from a book with a worn cover. The woman's smile widened. "The Wishing Well and the Moonflower," she said, her voice catching with emotion. "Your favorite story."

The realization hit me like a tidal wave. This wasn't heaven, or an in-between place. This was a memory, a perfect recreation of a happy moment from my childhood, conjured by the book in the bookstore. A tear slid down my cheek, landing on my hand.

A lifetime of unspoken words hung heavy in the air. In that shared touch, a flood of memories washed over me – stolen kisses goodnight, the scent of jasmine in her hair, the warmth of her embrace. But also, the constant tension, the simmering resentment, and the emptiness that followed her absence.

"I don't know if I can forgive you," I whispered, the words catching in my throat.

Aai's smile was a fragile thing, laced with sadness. "I don't expect you to," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "But I hope, someday, you might understand."

We stood there in silence, the weight of the past pressing down on us. Behind us, the sun began its descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. It was a beautiful, bittersweet sight, a reflection of the emotions swirling within me.

As the first stars began to shimmer, Aai turned towards a path that led deeper into the meadow. "There's not much time," she said, her voice soft. "But I'm so glad I could see you again."

I wanted to scream, to demand answers, to beg her to stay. But the words wouldn't come. All I could do was nod, a single tear tracing a path down my cheek.

Aai offered me a sad smile, then turned and walked away, her form fading with each step. As the last sliver of her figure disappeared, I turned and began the long walk back. The vibrant green field began to fade, replaced by the dusty shelves of the bookstore. I blinked, disoriented. Aai was gone. In her place stood the old bookseller, his kind eyes filled with concern.

"Are you alright, dear?" he asked, his voice gentle.

I looked down at my hand, still warm from Aai's touch. It was empty now, but the ache in my heart felt lighter. A bittersweet ache, tinged with forgiveness and a newfound understanding.

"Yes," I finally managed, my voice thick with emotion. "Thank you."

The old bookseller smiled knowingly. "Sometimes," he said, his voice raspy with age, "the greatest stories aren't found in books, but within ourselves."

I nodded, clutching the worn copy of "The Wishing Well and the Moonflower" to my chest. It wasn't just a book anymore; it was a bridge, a connection to a love I almost shut out.Leaving the bookstore, I stepped back out into the bustling streets of Thane. The world seemed different, sharper somehow. The cacophony of traffic no longer grated on my nerves; it was a symphony of life. With a newfound lightness in my step, I walked on, the weight of the past lifted, replaced by the promise of a future filled with love and forgiveness.

Yet, a flicker of doubt lingered. Aai's tears, the ache in her voice – they hinted at a deeper story. Perhaps someday, I will be ready to hear it.

Weeks turned into months, and the memory of the bookstore remained vivid. One evening, I found myself drawn back to the turquoise haven. The old bookseller greeted me with a warm smile.

"Welcome back, Chaitra," he said, his eyes twinkling. "Found another story that needs a reader?"

I shook my head. "No, but there's something I need to ask."

Hesitantly, I recounted my experience, the tearful reunion, and the unanswered question that gnawed at me. Why did she leave?

The old bookseller listened patiently, his kind eyes reflecting the setting sun.

"There are many reasons people make difficult choices, Chaitra," he said gently. "Sometimes, love itself can be a burden, a fear of not being enough."

His words struck a chord. Perhaps Aai had left because she believed her absence would be better for them, a twisted sense of selflessness born from desperation.

"Do you think I'll ever understand?" I whispered, the question lingering in the air.

The bookseller smiled. "Understanding isn't always necessary, Chaitra. Sometimes, forgiveness is enough. It allows you to let go of the hurt and embrace the love that remains."

His words resonated deep within me. Forgiveness isn't forgetting, but acknowledging the pain and choosing to move forward. Maybe I would never fully understand Aai's reasons, but I could choose to forgive her, to cherish the memories we had, and build a future filled with love and acceptance.

Leaving the bookstore that day, I carried a newfound peace within me. The ache in my heart had transformed into a gentle thrum, a reminder of a love that transcended even goodbyes. The story of Aai and me wasn't over; it was simply entering a new chapter, one written with forgiveness and the unwavering promise of love.