Curiosity tugged at her. She slipped on her shoes, grabbed her shawl, and met him outside. The night was cool, the stars sharp against the sky. Vikram led her down a narrow path toward Lodwick Point, where the valley opened up like a secret whispered by the hills. They walked in comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t demand words. The pines swayed gently, and the distant call of a nightjar echoed

The mist hung low over Mahabaleshwar, cloaking the hill station in a dreamy haze. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, and the distant hum of crickets filled the evening. Aarti stood on the balcony of her family’s old colonial bungalow, her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. The strawberry fields beyond shimmered under the moonlight, their rows stretching into the fog like a painting half-finished. She had come here to escape—her job, the city’s chaos, and the ache of a recent breakup—but Mahabaleshwar, with its quiet magic, had other plans.

She noticed him first at Venna Lake, earlier that day. A man with tousled hair and a faded leather jacket, sketching by the water’s edge. His name, she later learned, was Vikram. He wasn’t like the usual tourists who flocked to Mahabaleshwar for selfies at Wilson Point or boat rides. He seemed to belong to the hills, his presence as natural as the mist. Their eyes had met briefly when she dropped her scarf near the lake, and he’d picked it up, his fingers brushing hers as he handed it back. “Careful,” he’d said with a smile that felt like sunlight breaking through clouds. “The hills have a way of stealing things.”

Now, as Aarti gazed at the moon, she heard footsteps crunching on the gravel path below. Her heart skipped. It was him, walking with that same easy stride, a sketchbook tucked under his arm. He stopped, looked up, and caught her staring. Embarrassed, she started to turn away, but he called out, “Couldn’t sleep either?”

She hesitated, then leaned over the balcony. “The moon’s too bright,” she replied, surprising herself with the ease of her words.

Vikram grinned. “It’s Mahabaleshwar. The moon’s always telling stories here. Want to hear one?”

Curiosity tugged at her. She slipped on her shoes, grabbed her shawl, and met him outside. The night was cool, the stars sharp against the sky. Vikram led her down a narrow path toward Lodwick Point, where the valley opened up like a secret whispered by the hills. They walked in comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t demand words. The pines swayed gently, and the distant call of a nightjar echoed.

At the viewpoint, they sat on a weathered bench, the valley sprawling below, bathed in silver light. Vikram opened his sketchbook, revealing drawings of the hills, the lake, and, to Aarti’s surprise, a quick sketch of her from earlier that day—her scarf fluttering, her eyes lost in thought. “You’re an artist,” she said, her voice soft with wonder.

“More like a wanderer with a pencil,” he replied. “I come here every year. Mahabaleshwar has a way of pulling you back, doesn’t it?”

She nodded. “My family used to come here when I was a kid. I’d forgotten how… alive it feels.”

He looked at her, his eyes searching. “What brought you back now?”

Aarti hesitated, the weight of her breakup pressing against her chest. “I needed to remember who I was before… everything.” She didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t push. Instead, he told her about the legend of the five rivers that met at Mahabaleshwar’s Krishna Temple, how their waters were said to carry the dreams of those who stood by them. “Maybe,” he said, “you’re here to find a new dream.”

Over the next few days, Aarti and Vikram found themselves drawn together. They explored the strawberry farms, where she laughed as he tried to pick the ripest berries, his hands stained red. They hiked to Arthur’s Seat, where the wind whipped her hair and he sketched the cliffs, stealing glances at her. At Kate’s Point, they stood side by side, watching the sunset paint the sky in hues of orange and pink, and she felt something shift inside her—a spark, fragile but warm.

One evening, at Mapro Garden, amidst the chatter of tourists and the scent of strawberry ice cream, Vikram took her hand. His touch was gentle, like the hills themselves, and she didn’t pull away. They sat under a canopy of fairy lights, sharing stories of their lives—her as a graphic designer in Mumbai, him as a freelance illustrator who’d traded city life for the road. “I’ve never met anyone who sees the world like you do,” she admitted, her cheeks flushing.

“And I’ve never met anyone who makes the world feel brighter,” he replied.

The night before Aarti was set to leave, they walked to Pratapgad Fort under a starlit sky. The fort’s ancient stones loomed silent, witnesses to countless stories. Vikram stopped near a banyan tree, its roots sprawling like history itself. “Aarti,” he said, his voice low, “I don’t know what happens when you go back to Mumbai. But I know I don’t want this to end here.”

Her heart raced. She’d been afraid to feel this again, afraid of breaking. But Mahabaleshwar, with its misty mornings and moonlit nights, had softened her edges. “I don’t know what happens either,” she said, stepping closer. “But I want to find out.”

He kissed her then, under the banyan’s ancient gaze, and it felt like the hills themselves were holding their breath. The kiss was soft, tentative, then deepening with the promise of something new. When they pulled apart, the stars seemed brighter, the night warmer.

As Aarti packed her bags the next morning, she found a small sketch tucked into her scarf—her face, framed by the hills, with the words, “Until the moon calls us back.” She smiled, knowing Mahabaleshwar had given her more than an escape. It had given her a beginning.