The sleek black Rolls-Royce had just glided past a bustling pavement when it suddenly screeched to a halt. The sharp sound echoed through the busy streets of Mumbai, stopping pedestrians in their tracks.

A woman stepped out of the car, her designer heels wobbling on the pavement. Before her sat a blind man, cradling an old guitar, singing with a voice full of anguish.

She froze.
The world stopped moving.
That man — was her ex-husband, the one she thought had died ten years ago.

Mumbai after the rain felt washed clean. The scent of wet asphalt, brewed chai, and distant car fumes lingered in the humid air on Colaba Causeway. The Rolls-Royce Phantom hadn’t stopped for a signal or traffic — it stopped because something had shattered in the woman’s heart.

Her name was Kavya Malhotra, 38, CEO of one of India’s leading real estate firms. A symbol of success, power, and elegance. But few knew that ten years ago, she was just a young woman living in a cramped rented flat in Bandra, with her then-husband Arjun — a struggling musician.

Back then, Arjun wasn’t a man of means. But he had a tender, artistic soul. He often sat on their balcony strumming his guitar, singing sad melodies for his wife — sometimes his own compositions. Their apartment was humble, their meals simple, but their love overflowed with warmth and laughter.

But love doesn’t always pay the bills.

Especially when Kavya became pregnant and was hospitalized for a high-risk pregnancy. The doctors said she needed long-term care. Arjun took on extra work at bars, gave private music lessons, did everything he could. But the money wasn’t enough.

One stormy night, while delivering a guitar to a client, he met with a horrific accident. News of the crash reached Kavya as she lay on an IV drip.

When she awoke, they told her:
Arjun had died.
His body was unrecognizable from the fire.

In shock, she also lost the baby.

And from that day, her life changed course.

She left behind her past, burying her pain in boardrooms, contracts, and cold ambition. No more poetry. No more music. Only mergers and deadlines.

Ten years later, Kavya was a billionaire — with mansions, cars, and investments across India. But deep inside, she carried a wound that never healed. She never remarried. Never let herself believe in love again.

Until that summer afternoon…
Just after the rain had cleared, fate placed her in front of the man she thought she had lost forever.

She stepped out of her car, ignoring the curious stares.

The blind man sat under a tree, wearing a faded shirt, his hair messy. His fingers moved over the guitar strings, and his voice filled the street:

“The day you left, the wind forgot to sing
My strings went silent, my dreams turned to ash…”

Kavya froze.
No one else knew that song.
It was Arjun’s — a song he wrote after they lost their child.

Her hands trembled. Her heart raced.
She walked forward, unable to speak.

“Arjun…?”
Her voice cracked.

The man stopped singing. He turned toward her. His eyes, clouded and lifeless, showed no recognition. He furrowed his brow, trying to remember.

“I… I’m sorry. I don’t remember anyone,” he said, voice hoarse and tired.

“It’s me… Kavya.
Your wife…” she choked, tears rolling down her flawless makeup.

Arjun froze.

His lips trembled. He placed the guitar on the ground and reached forward slowly, like he was reaching into a memory.
His fingers touched her cheek — gently, like he used to.

“Kavya… is it really you?”

Kneeling on the pavement, Kavya held his hand to her cheek as the world around them blurred. People walked by. Cars honked. But they didn’t see any of it.

Ten years apart.
Ten years of silence.
And now, her heart finally began to beat again.

“They told me you died,” she sobbed.
“The fire… they said there was nothing left to identify…”

Arjun swallowed hard. He sat still like stone, then whispered:

“I didn’t die.
But there are things worse than death.”

That night, Arjun hadn’t died in the accident.

A stranger had pulled him from the flames and taken him to a small clinic in rural Gujarat. When he awoke, his eyes were gone. His skin burned. His documents had turned to ash.

He couldn’t remember who he was.

Weeks later, as his memory returned, he tried to send word to Kavya. But every effort failed. A kind doctor finally told him:

“The papers already said you’re dead. Your wife’s family claimed the body.
She probably believes you’re gone.”

Arjun refused to believe it. He searched, but she had moved. Left no trace.
Eventually, he stopped trying. He accepted the truth.

He was blind. Alone. Forgotten.

He made peace with fate and began singing on the streets — not for money, but for something to hold onto. Something that sounded like her.

“I thought… if you were happy again… I wouldn’t show up.
But every time I sang, I thought of you,” he said.

And then they both broke down, sobbing, holding each other in the middle of the street.

Ten years apart.
One broken song.
And one fateful moment that brought two hearts back together.