Over the weeks, their meetings grew into a quiet rhythm. Zain would share poems, scribbled on scraps of paper, and Aalia would gift him small woven trinkets—a bookmark, a coaster—each laced with her care. They spoke of their lives: her village, where the saffron fields bloomed like purple fire

In the heart of Kashmir, where the Dal Lake shimmered under the autumn sun, Aalia sat on the edge of her shikara, trailing her fingers through the water. The air carried the faint scent of saffron fields and the crisp promise of winter. Her dupatta, embroidered with chinar leaves, fluttered in the breeze as she gazed at the snow-capped peaks of the Zabarwan range. Aalia, a weaver’s daughter from a village near Srinagar, had come to the city to sell her family’s pashmina shawls at the floating market. But her heart was heavy, tangled in dreams she dared not name.

Across the lake, on another shikara laden with apples and walnuts, was Zain, a poet and orchard keeper from Baramulla. His eyes, the color of roasted chestnuts, scanned the market’s bustle, but they always returned to Aalia. For weeks, their paths had crossed at the market—her shawls catching his eye, his verses catching her ear. He’d once slipped a folded note into her basket, a poem comparing her smile to the first bloom of a saffron crocus. She’d blushed, tucking it into her sleeve, but hadn’t spoken to him. Not yet.

Today, the market hummed with voices—vendors haggling, tourists snapping photos, the soft plunk of oars in water. Aalia arranged her shawls, their intricate patterns glowing like the valley’s meadows. Zain, a few boats away, was reciting a poem to a customer, his voice low and melodic. Aalia stole a glance, her heart quickening when their eyes met. He smiled, and she looked away, her cheeks warming.

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the lake in hues of gold and rose, the market began to quiet. Aalia packed her unsold shawls, her fingers lingering on the soft wool. She hadn’t sold much today, and the weight of her family’s expectations pressed on her. A soft splash broke her thoughts. Zain’s shikara glided closer, his paddle slicing through the water with practiced ease.

“Assalamualaikum,” he said, his voice gentle. “Your shawls—they’re like poetry woven into thread.”

Aalia’s lips curved into a shy smile. “Walaikumassalam. And your words… they make the lake listen.”

He laughed, a sound like the chime of temple bells in the distance. “May I see one?” he asked, nodding toward her bundle.

She hesitated, then handed him a shawl, its emerald green threaded with silver paisleys. His fingers brushed hers as he took it, sending a spark through her veins. He draped the shawl over his hands, studying it with reverence. “This could warm a heart, not just a body,” he said. “Who taught you such art?”

“My mother,” Aalia replied, her voice softening. “She says every thread tells a story.”

“And what’s yours?” Zain’s eyes held hers, searching.

Aalia looked at the water, its surface rippling with secrets. “I don’t know yet,” she whispered.

The next day, a soft rain fell, veiling the valley in mist. Aalia returned to the market, her heart a mix of hope and nerves. Zain was there, his shikara anchored near hers. He offered her a handful of walnuts, their shells glossy from the rain. “For strength,” he said, grinning. She accepted, their fingers lingering longer than necessary.

Over the weeks, their meetings grew into a quiet rhythm. Zain would share poems, scribbled on scraps of paper, and Aalia would gift him small woven trinkets—a bookmark, a coaster—each laced with her care. They spoke of their lives: her village, where the saffron fields bloomed like purple fire; his orchard, where apples fell like offerings to the earth. They laughed over shared dreams—of traveling beyond the valley, of creating something timeless.

One evening, as the lake glowed under a crescent moon, Zain rowed his shikara beside hers. The market had closed, and the water was still, mirroring the stars. He held out a small wooden box, carved with lotus patterns. “Open it,” he said.

Inside was a delicate saffron thread, tied into a bracelet, its golden hue catching the moonlight. “It’s from my family’s field,” Zain said. “A promise… if you’ll have it.”

Aalia’s breath caught. In Kashmir, saffron was more than a spice—it was a vow, a tether to the land and to each other. Her fingers trembled as she tied the bracelet around her wrist. “And this,” she said, pulling a tiny woven square from her pocket, “is my promise.” It was a miniature of her finest shawl, embroidered with a single word: Zain.

He took it, his eyes shining. “Aalia,” he murmured, “you’re my verse, my valley, my home.”

She smiled, tears blurring the stars. “And you’re my story.”

They sat in silence, their shikaras drifting closer, the lake cradling their hopes. The mist curled around them, and the mountains stood sentinel, as if blessing