“She Waited by the Window”

In a small town, there lived an old woman named Amara. Every day, from morning till sunset, she sat near the window of her little house, looking at the road. People in the neighborhood often said,

“She’s waiting for someone.”

And they were right.

She was waiting for Zayan.

Many years ago, when Amara was young, she met Zayan at a wedding. He was quiet, kind, and had the warmest eyes. She was shy and always nervous, but around him, she felt safe. He would walk her home from school, buy her sweets, and listen when no one else did.

They fell in love slowly. Like the sun rising, not fast—but surely.

They didn’t have much money. Zayan worked as a mechanic. Amara helped her mother sew clothes. But they dreamed of a small house, a garden with flowers, and children who would laugh in the yard.

One day, Zayan said,

“I want to give you a better life, Amara. I will go to the city, find work, save money, and come back to marry you.”

She held his hand and whispered,

“I’ll wait. No matter how long.

He left the next morning with a small bag and big hopes.

Days turned into weeks.

Weeks turned into months.

Amara wrote letters. She waited at the post office. Sometimes a letter came. Sometimes it didn’t. But she always believed he would return.

People started asking questions:

“Are you sure he’s coming back?”

“Maybe he forgot you.”

But she smiled and said,

“No. Zayan is not like that. He promised.”

Years passed. Her hair turned gray. Her friends got married. Even her parents grew tired and told her to move on.

But she didn’t.

She kept his letters in a wooden box. She read them every night.

“I miss you, Amara.”

“Life is hard here, but I’m trying.”

“One day soon, I’ll come back.”

Then, one day, the letters stopped.

She waited at the window.

One month.

Two months.

A year.

No news.

But she still waited.

She never married. She never left that little house. Every morning, she wore the same earrings he had given her. Every evening, she made two cups of tea—one for herself, and one for him.

One rainy day, a young journalist named Adeel came to the town. He was doing a story on forgotten love. When he heard about Amara, he decided to visit her.

He sat beside her as she looked out the window.

“Why do you still wait?” he asked gently.

She smiled; eyes filled with memories.

“Because he promised he would come back. And love… real love… never stops waiting.”

Adeel was touched. He decided to help her. He searched old records, asked people in the city, visited hospitals, even spoke to the police.

After weeks, he found something.

Zayaan had been in an accident many years ago. He lost his memory. He had been living in a care center all this time, painting pictures of a woman with long black hair and sad eyes.

Adeel showed him a photo of Amara.

Zayan’s hands began to shake. Tears rolled down his face.

“I know her,” he whispered. “She was my home.”

A few days later, Adeel brought Zayan back to the town.

Amara was sitting by the window, like always.

Zayan walked slowly, leaning on a stick, heart pounding in his chest. When she saw him, she didn’t speak. She just stood up, walked to him, and touched his face.

He began to cry.

“I’m sorry I took so long,” he said.

She held his hand and replied,

“I told you I’d wait.”

That evening, two cups of tea sat on the table—but this time, both were finally touched.

**Some love stories aren’t loud. They’re not full of drama or noise.

They are quiet, patient, and strong enough to wait a lifetime. **

And sometimes… that’s the kind of love that lasts forever.