There are pauses between their talks now. Some silences that speak unspoken words that convey few fears.
He reads the book, Ishmael, her first gift to him. He looks at her picture. He smiles.
She paints Shiva in a thousand different ways as only she can. In between their talks and her paintings, there are brushstrokes of assurances. There are a thousand wishes waiting to be painted and sketched and written upon.
Two lives, awaiting a common destination on the same journey, are waiting in this waiting room. Soon, they hear a whistle of an approaching train.
They get up and hold hands; she lifts his baggage while he carries her's. They're ready.
He reads the book, Ishmael, her first gift to him. He looks at her picture. He smiles.
She paints Shiva in a thousand different ways as only she can. In between their talks and her paintings, there are brushstrokes of assurances. There are a thousand wishes waiting to be painted and sketched and written upon.
Two lives, awaiting a common destination on the same journey, are waiting in this waiting room. Soon, they hear a whistle of an approaching train.
They get up and hold hands; she lifts his baggage while he carries her's. They're ready.
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