The Strings Remember

The old rubab sat in the corner of the room, covered in a faded cloth, untouched for years. Its wooden surface was worn, the strings slightly rusted, but it still held a quiet grace — like a sleeping memory.

Sarfaraz hadn’t touched it since she left.

The house was silent now. Too silent. The kind of silence that follows something unspoken — not a fight, not a goodbye — just… absence. Her absence.

Her name was Maheen, and she used to say that music was memory in disguise.

Sarfaraz first met her at a music workshop at university. He wasn’t there to make friends — just to fill a credit. But she walked in, holding her own rubab like it was an extension of her soul, and everything changed.

She wasn’t loud or dramatic.

She didn’t demand attention.

But when she played, the entire room leaned forward — not with their ears, but with their hearts.

He was drawn to her not because she was beautiful (though she was), but because she played as if every note carried something she couldn’t say out loud.

Eventually, she asked him, “Why don’t you ever play?”

He shrugged. “I used to.”

“Why’d you stop?”

“I forgot how to feel it.”

She looked at him gently. “Then let’s remember together.”

They spent weeks after class, sitting in the practice rooms, their rubabs singing to each other — old folk melodies, half-written compositions, silence filled with rhythm.

Music became the way they spoke.

Sometimes they laughed through it. Sometimes they cried. But it was always honest. And slowly, something unspoken grew between them. Something fragile, like a note held just a little too long.

They never called it love.

But it was.

Then the semester ended.

And Maheen left — not out of cruelty, but because life has a way of pulling people in different directions.

There was no dramatic goodbye. No confession. Just the quiet end of a melody.

Sarfaraz tried to keep playing. But the notes didn’t feel right anymore. They sounded hollow, like trying to echo someone else’s heartbeat.

So he wrapped up his rubab.

Put it in the corner.

And let it sleep.

Three years passed.

Life moved on — in the way that it does when you’re not looking.

Sarfaraz graduated. Got a job. Paid rent. Learned to smile politely.

But something in him stayed quiet.

Until today.

It was raining — not heavily, just that soft, lonely kind of rain that makes the world feel slower. He was cleaning the apartment when he saw the old rubab under the cloth.

Without thinking, he unwrapped it.

The moment his fingers touched the strings, something inside him stirred — not pain, not joy — just memory.

He tuned it slowly.

Then he played the first melody they had ever shared.

And the room filled with her again.

He remembered the way she closed her eyes when she listened.

The way she would hum quietly before starting a new piece.

The way her fingers moved — not just with skill, but with trust.

He kept playing.

And with each note, it felt like he was stitching together a version of himself he had forgotten.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

Startled, he stopped playing.

When he opened the door, a courier handed him a small envelope with no return address.

Inside was a letter.

“Dear Sarfaraz,”

“I heard a rubab being played in the rain today. It made me think of you.”

“Funny how we lose songs but never the feeling they leave behind.”

“I’m in the city now. If you ever want to play again — I’d like to remember with you.”

– Maheen.

He stood there, stunned, the letter trembling in his hand.

Outside, the rain kept falling — soft, steady, rhythmic.

He looked back at the rubab.

And smiled.

He picked it up, and this time, he didn’t play alone.

He played like he was being heard.

Because sometimes, love doesn’t need big words or promises.

Sometimes, it’s just a string vibrating through time, waiting for the other to answer back.

End.