It is dark when I leave Mehrabpur, and I am, for once, sure of where I'm going…

n

That's the thing about trains, though. They only promise you the destination. Not what gets on board with you.

n

His name is Shahzain. Window seat thief, terrible sleeper, worse liar. Fifteen hours to Lahore and somewhere around hour three, he hands me a piece of paper and a problem I did not ask for, a letter, he says, in a language that doesn't exist. I almost laugh. Almost.

n

Lahore doesn't ask why we've come. Cities like that rarely do. It just gives you chai, a roof, an aunt who feeds you before she questions you, and, if you're unlucky, a stranger who finds you at 4 a.m. on an empty platform like he's been waiting there longer than the station has existed.

n

His name is Vanzen. He never asks who I am.

n

He already knows. I'd like to tell you this is a story about a letter. Or a city. Or a girl back home, I still haven't told the truth.

n

Vanzen

Comentarios