In the middle of St. Petersburg, where dusk lingered longer than night, Lipika walked like a silk whisper through an amber-lit library between two old stone buildings. She was not Russian by blood—born from the wombs of Indian diplomats—but the city had shaped her. Her name, strange to hear, lingered on strangers' lips like a secret they were not allowed to say out loud.
Mikhail was watching her from across the room, pretending to read a book by Pushkin. Lipika was not just walking—she was gliding along the light scent of jasmine and winter fire. Her long, delicate fingers were tracing the spines of the books reverently, as if both held memories of a lover.
When their eyes finally met, it was no coincidence. She tilted her head slightly, a pomegranate-colored half-smile playing on her lips. She spoke first, her voice low, heavy—like velvet on smoke.
"Pushkin is not meant to be read quietly," she said. "He must be heard, whispered… from close."
Mikhail sighed, closing the book. Lipika drew closer, the space between them filled with something electric, almost ancient. Outside, the snow began to fall softly, touching the stained-glass windows in a white silence.
They sat together in a corner where the dust never reached. Her voice was weaving Russian poetry in the air, each word falling like snowflakes on bare skin. She leaned in, her hot breath against his ear, her fingers touching his wrist with the weight of a thousand silent poems.
Mikhail never remembered the end of the poem—only that Lipika's laughter seemed like cinnamon, the feeling of her presence like a burning candle in the darkest hour.
And long after the library closed, her voice remained.
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