Leave a trace.

The window is open. The chilly, rain-drenched breeze hasn’t stopped all night. The messy bed. The exhausted laptop. The unlocked wardrobe. Discarded shirts, vests, backaches, crumpled sheets, books—all blending to create a sense of familiarity. Once, sleep wouldn’t come easily in this room. But with time, a person grows accustomed to so many things.

As I stare into the approaching dawn, my hand reaches for the cigarette pack. Empty. So, I have to go out. I drape a stray vest around my neck, grab the keys and helmet, and open the door. The wind rushes in with a howl. The moment I switch off the light, the room turns bluish. The sky looks like a frozen screensaver of drifting clouds.

I shut the flat door and walked down the hallway toward the elevator. A faint smile tugs at me. Every time a certain friend visited, she’d ask, "Really? This is the place? This is where that little girl is seen standing in the middle of the night?" And I’d say, "Yes." The elevator doors slide open. I glance at the sleeping security guard and feel a pang of pity. I head toward the parking lot. There’s something mystical about how the wind never stops here. The small, palm-like trees keep rustling their leaves, creating an eerie melody. In my teens, I read a hadith about how, in paradise, the leaves of trees would produce soothing sounds to delight the soul.

Only at times like these do I dislike the sound of my bike. If only there were something quieter… But when you think about it, the whole of human history has been like this. A green, silent earth—until, one by one, humanity carved noise into it, fractured the quiet, and learned to call the clamor home. Someday, I suppose, I’ll do the same.

The bike lurches over potholes, tires slicing through rain-slicked cracks in the asphalt. At the flyover’s crest, a sudden gust slams into me, sharp as a blade—cold enough to make my breath hitch, just for a second. This place is strange. On one side, a city roars and grows louder. On the other hand, the monsoon swells the greenery, filling the eyes with lushness. Two roads meet here, briefly touch, and then go their separate ways. Maybe whenever two paths of life cross, the surroundings turn just this green.

This damp, darkened road. The drizzle starts again. I speed up and reach Kaka’s tea stall.

"Kaka, one tea and a Marlboro, please."

"Son, heading home now? Were you working all night?"

"I was working. But from home. Just came from there."

"Ah, here you go."

The rain picks up now. Drops fall in a steady plip-plop through the tarp awning. A heaviness settles in my chest. On the way here, among the green, I saw a signboard by the roadside: "This site has been allocated to Punjab National Bank." There were a few more like it. Old concrete crumbles. New structures rise. And in between, the greenery disappears. Like always, I feel the urge to say, "Beloved, leave behind a memory."

"Beloved, leave a trace."