The City That Never Stops

The city didn’t sleep.

Not really. It just dimmed its lights and changed its rhythm—trading traffic horns for distant rain on rooftops, hurried footsteps for hushed television murmurs, neon shop signs for soft bedside lamps. Even past midnight, there was always movement. Always noise. Always something unfinished, something new beginning.

Ira Mehra sat by the tall window of her 14th-floor apartment, watching droplets slide down the glass like slow-moving tears. The skyline beyond shimmered in misty yellow and blue. She should’ve been asleep. Her mornings started before most people even considered hitting snooze. But sleep had become a stubborn stranger lately—arriving only when it pleased, if at all.

In her lap, a half-full notebook sat open. A sharp mechanical pencil tapped against its edge in an absent rhythm. She had been trying to sketch something for her next pitch—a brand redesign for a publishing firm—but all that came out were scattered lines and empty thoughts.

Her phone buzzed once. A reminder.

“Interview – 9:30 AM. Assistant candidate. Don’t forget.”

She didn’t need the nudge. They were short-staffed, again. The last assistant had lasted three weeks. Before him, another barely made it to two. Her team joked that she had impossible standards. Maybe she did. Maybe it was just easier to focus on work than notice what was missing elsewhere.

Down in the street, someone laughed. A deep, real laugh—probably drunk, maybe in love, maybe both. She smiled faintly. Her eyes drifted to the only photograph in her living room: her and her brother at her graduation, arms around each other, beaming with the kind of joy that comes from shared survival.

That was five years ago. He was in Canada now, thriving. She was here, running a company by day and outpacing her loneliness by night.

She reached for her tea. It had gone cold.

A few kilometers away, across the river, in a smaller, quieter neighborhood, Aaryan Verma stood in his kitchen, washing a single mug. The lights were off in the rest of the house, save for the amber glow above the sink. He moved slowly, deliberately, as if time owed him something.

Behind him, on the table, lay a manuscript. Untouched. Unfinished.

It had been nearly two years since he wrote a word that felt like his. His last book release had been a quiet one, and the silence that followed even quieter. His words had once healed others. But when loss came for him, no amount of poetry could hold it back.

Tomorrow, he’d begin something entirely different.

A desk job. Office badge. Routine.

He didn’t know the woman he’d be working for.

Didn’t care to.

He wasn’t looking for anything.

And yet, as the rain thickened outside and the city shifted again in its never-ending waltz, something gentle stirred in the air.

A beginning, perhaps.

But neither of them knew it yet.