Sylvia had a lot of words on her mind. Like most people, she also had a constant desire to communicate, connect, and express. But, like most people, her tongue did not serve her mind. Of the infinite nerves that sent the brain's commands to her vocal cords, a single nerve passed through her heart. It connected her vocal cords with her heart, filtering the words between the brain and vocal cords. That one nerve made all the difference.

Heart, unlike her mind, preferred silence. Thus, with all the words floating endlessly within, Sylvia was a quiet girl.

Quiet–she did not voice her words. She spoke in silence.

Her heart that did not trust the tongue instead spoke through her hands. Sylvia wrote her heart out. Endlessly.

Her heart had not always been so quiet. Memories had imposed that silence, had stolen her voice. She wasn't mute. She had lost her desire to speak.

She remembered him. She had loved him. A decade back, he had left her, a few decades too soon, breaking the vows of a lifetime together. He had left behind a son born a few days after he left. Few days, just enough to finish the obligations of the soul in the higher world and be born again.

Her son grew beautiful, too. She saw her husband in her son. Then, one Sunday morning, her son fell from the roof.

Gravity had pulled her son and her hope of love. They both impacted hard and didn't survive ― her son and her hope of love. It hurt.

Her past started painting over her future, a thick, dark shade of grey. The sorrows of her past painted over the joy of her future. At the happy young age of thirty-two, Sylvia lived and viewed things and life as old grandmothers do. She dressed in carelessness and told imaginary stories to herself. She regarded the shallowness in depth, the meaningless of the meaningful relationships, and the ethereal, temporary nature of permanence. But, like grandmothers, her stories had hope. Sylvia believed in hope. The hope of things that could have been. Could still be.

Her second book was published. It was a story of a girl who lost her love, fought a war and won her hope. It was a fictional story, of course. She had added the war and the hope of finding another love‒both fictional. The rest of it could have been a true story. This book hadn't fared as well as her first. Readers of the modern world were drawn into themselves through little devices now. Few had time for reminiscence, replaced by imaginary escapes into superhumans, vampires, and an endless search for pleasure. The readers of the past were busy today, browsing without seeing, hearing without listening, and watching without experiencing. The beautiful inner world of humanity was dying.

But Sylvia had words flooding her young frame, escaping through her hands. Sylvia wrote because her inner world was on fire.

She was sitting in Crosswords for the book review organized by her publisher. The bookstore, once frequented by lovers, was now a museum of memories and dreams of a few still choosing stories over 280 character narratives. She liked the change, though. It had filtered the crowd of its chaos, leaving only a few true lovers behind.

She liked the smell of empty bookstores. The mixed scents of the new books that were dusted every day without reading, like the scent of the old and forgotten forts, trying to communicate, trying to introduce themselves in silence. She, too, built these forts, old and forgotten before they were born. They turned the air conditioner to a low temperature to hide the fever that raged the books. She wrapped her arms around her chest. She felt anxious and cold. She and the books were both lonely, finding solace in each other's company.

She was not good at reading, which required speaking. She was out of practice. So she sat at the designated desk with copies of her book. She had tried to be polite and signed the book, writing names and messages as her few readers wished. She had a lot to express and few people to express to. She wrote longer-than-necessary notes in the books. Her loneliness made her readers feel special.

She had finished the little pile of books when he sat in front of her. He smiled. A quiet, disarming, non-intrusive, relatable smile. She gestured to her publishing agent to get a book. He showed her a thumbs down. They had no copies left.

He rose slowly, with hesitation. She saw the little glimpse of disappointment. She didn't like to disappoint the world. Something had disarmed her; his smile, his silence, or his being; she didn't know what. She picked up her handbag and took out her personal copy, an old dog-eared copy she had used for her own reading. The copy had a few handwritten notes, a few regrets, and one old forgotten Juliet rose; all pressed between pages. She loved the copy but kept it on the desk. He sat down, looked at the book, picked it up, opened it, and read; how it was usually done. He turned the pages very-very slowly; not how it was usually done.

She observed him immersed in the book, observed the thinning crowd, observed her agent pointing at his watch, and observed the shop closing itself down. He didn't observe any of it. She tapped on her desk. He glanced up and picked up the book. She nodded a little 'okay'.

"Thank you", he whispered. She didn't miss the dried trace of salt a tear had left on his young face. It wasn't there before.

He had disarmed her with an unfamiliar familiarity. He left the bookstore and her.

There was a slight drizzle outside, and young boys and girls from a nearby school huddled on the stairs of the bookshop. Little crowds of two, scattered, nature giving them an excuse to be together; in twos.

Sylvia stood alone. A crowd of one.

Seeing couples laughing in the rain somehow opened an old photo album in her mind, making her a little uncomfortable. Their love and the drizzle outside had turned into rain inside her. Nature followed. It started pouring.

The bookstore was closed, leaving books with each other. She waited on the stairs with herself. She wanted it to be a short passing rain. The crowds of two wanted it to last forever. They won. Streetlights switched themselves on as the surroundings dimmed below the dark clouds. She was a little wet, a little cold, and a little sad.

He had seen her; wet, cold, and sad. He walked beside her and opened his umbrella. She looked up, wondering why he was wet when he had an umbrella. He pointed towards the book, which was inside the umbrella. He had kept the rains away from the book at his own cost. She took the book and kept it inside her handbag to protect the book. He took her below the umbrella to protect her.

They walked in the rain, in the dim light, away from the crowd of two, as two crowds of one; together. The umbrella wasn't big enough. But she was well under it and dry. He was dry in parts near her and wet in the parts away from her. Occasionally, her shoulder brushed his. She would glance at him at those moments to find him looking at her. It was not a look of desire or lust–the common words that would make her uncomfortable. She knew that look but chose not to think of a word to describe it. She felt comfortable.

The season's first rain had released the layer of mud that was longing for the sky. The clear rainwater turned itself muddy as soon as it touched the earth. A car passed, making little waves, soaking her shoes with muddy water. Earth had passed its longing into her.

He walked her to the nearest bus terminal. He kept standing till she boarded the bus. She remembered to hand him the book before she left. She only looked back once. He was standing there. Still.

She separated herself from the rain by lowering the glass window, now opaque with mist. He was out of sight. She closed her eyes and separated herself from the desire that was raining inside her. Few raindrops made it through the gap between the glass and the windowpane.

Contd in Part II...

Author's Note :

Sylvia - The name originates from the Latin word for forest Silva and its meaning is the spirit of the wood.

Sylvia is also the name of my favorite poet, novelist, and short-story writer.