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Title: Yes – the one who brought me back (A woman’s re-journey, the touch of an incomplete love, and the story of a soul in words)

Ashok Bhatnagar
FANTASY
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Submitted to Contest #5 in response to the prompt: 'A simple “yes” leads to something you never saw coming'





It was winter.
A light fog was floating in the sky, as if an old sheet of memories was spread on the ground. The cold winds were playing with the hair and reaching deep inside, and every gust awakened some forgotten feeling buried within Neelam.
It was five in the evening.
The last golden rays of the day were now falling on the ground after filtering through the fog. Darkness had slowly started knocking on the door, and sitting in the balcony, Neelam was looking at the birds with a cup of tea in her hand, who were returning to their homes, tearing through the sky that was getting darker in the distant horizon.
She loved watching them.
It was a winter evening.
A soft haze drifted across the sky, like an old blanket of memories gently laid upon the earth. The cold wind tangled with her hair, touching something deep inside her — stirring echoes she had long forgotten.
It was five in the evening.
The last golden rays of the day filtered faintly through the fog and fell to the ground. Darkness had begun to knock at the doors of the sky.
Neelam sat on the balcony, hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea, watching birds fly back to their nests after a long day.
She loved watching them.
Every evening, she would think the same thing:
“I wish I too could return to some nest... some home where I could simply be myself. Not someone’s mother. Not someone’s wife. Not a woman lost in grocery lists and kitchen routines. Just Neelam — the woman who once wrote poems looking at the moon.”
Every sip of tea seemed to bring her a little warmth… and a little more loneliness.
And then — the phone rang.
Her fingers froze.
The name flashing on the screen made her heart skip a beat —
“Rajiv Sir”
A wave of old emotion surged inside her.
Her heartbeat quickened.
Rajiv — her college English professor.
The same man who had once read a story she had written in her diary and said:
"Your words have a soul, Neelam. Never stop writing."
That one sentence had opened a door within her.
But life hadn’t taken long to shut it again.
She got married.
Had children.
Responsibilities filled every corner of her home — and the unfinished diary was tucked away into a dusty cupboard.
Much like herself.
That diary was still there —
Filled with unfinished poems, clumsy dreams, a few questions… and long silences.
She answered the call.
“Hello, Sir?”
The voice on the other side was unchanged — still calm, serious, and warm with familiarity.
“Neelam… may I ask you something?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’m conducting a workshop — called Forgotten Voices.
For women who once created something… wrote, sang, dreamed — but have now forgotten who they were.
Will you take part in it?”
Neelam fell silent.
It felt as if her own shadow was suddenly standing before her —
The girl who once wrote poems about love while dancing in the rain,
The one who saved old letters in a rusted tin box,
The one who now entered the kitchen every morning without even glancing in the mirror.
Rajiv’s voice was still waiting on the other end.
“Neelam?”
She wept — without tears.
Her eyes were wet, but inside, something had finally softened.
The first drops had fallen on a long-parched soul.
And without thinking further, she whispered —
“Yes…”
That night, Neelam opened the cupboard.
She pulled out her old diary, blew off the dust —
as if brushing away years of silence.
As she flipped through its pages, she saw herself again —
somewhere trembling, somewhere forgotten, but still there.
She found a poem titled:
“The Woman in the Closed Cupboard”
A cry from a woman who no longer remembered the sound of her own voice.
At dawn, she typed the poem and sent it to Rajiv.
A reply came soon:
“Neelam, this isn’t a poem — it’s a cry from the soul. Read it at the first session.”
The room was filled with twelve women —
a former journalist, a classical dancer, a painter whose brushes were now limited to children's school projects.
Rajiv introduced her with a gentle smile:
“And this is — Neelam Sharma. A writer. Once upon a time, she wrote stories that could shake your soul.”
Neelam blinked.
“Writer?”
The word sounded foreign to her now.
Rajiv looked at her.
“Neelam, would you like to begin?”
Her hands trembled, but her heart held steady.
She stood up… and began to read:
“I am that woman in the closed cupboard,
Who has hidden an unfinished poem behind every silk saree,
Who cried while writing her name in her children’s notebooks,
Who now wants to call out her name again.”
A silence fell over the room — one so still, it could only be felt.
When she sat down, an elderly woman named Shobha Ji, sitting beside her, gently took her hand and whispered —
“You just spoke my soul.”
Every weekend, Neelam returned to the workshop.
Rajiv's words echoed in her mind —
“Your fear is your literature. Write, Neelam.”
She began writing again —
late into the nights, after the children went to school, in the quiet company of tea.
She started a blog:
“Neelam’s Soft Voice”
The title of her first post was:
“This voice was lost… now it has returned. Shaky, but true.”
Manoj, her husband, saw the blog but said nothing.
Then, one evening, without a word, he placed a laptop on her table.
“You're writing so much now… your eyes will get strained on the phone screen.”
Neelam looked at him quietly.
Manoj wasn’t a man of many words — but his gestures spoke volumes.
And today, he had understood that her writing wasn’t a hobby…
It was her lifeline.
One day, after the workshop, Rajiv said softly:
“Your words are changing, Neelam… they now carry not just truth, but courage.”She smiled.
“Perhaps all that age had hidden away is now finally surfacing.”
Rajiv looked at her for a long moment.
Then he said — in a tone only she could hear:
“You know, I’ve never just been a fan of your words.
Sometimes… I feel there’s a poem even in your silence — one that only I get to read.”
Neelam was speechless.
Something inside her stirred.
Something clicked —
Maybe it was love.
Or perhaps… it was simply the acceptance she had longed for all her life.
Hundreds of people gathered.
Neelam walked onto the stage — confident, luminous, present.
She told her story.
Slowly.
Without fear.
Without apology.
**“I am an ordinary woman.
But my one ‘yes’ made me extraordinary.
This wasn’t a ‘yes’ to a workshop…
This was a ‘yes’ to finding myself again.”**
People wiped their eyes.
Rajiv sat in the front row, smiling — proud, emotional.
After the event, Rajiv came to her silently.
He handed her an envelope — inside was one of her old poems.
Neelam looked at him.
“You kept this up all these years?”
Rajiv replied in a voice full of feeling:
“I haven’t just kept the poem safe…
I’ve kept you safe.”
Tears filled Neelam’s eyes.
She looked at him for a long time and said, gently —
“Some love is most beautiful… when it stays incomplete, Rajiv Sir.”
Now, whenever someone asks Neelam —
“How did you begin again?”
She smiles and says —
“I received a phone call… and I just said yes.”


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Excellent and heart touching story ❤️ \n

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I have awarded points to your story according to my liking. Please reciprocate by voting for my story as well. I just entered a writing contest! Read, vote, and share your thoughts.! https://notionpress.com/write_contest/details/6241/irrevocable

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Hey Ashok, What a soul-stirring story! Neelam’s quiet journey of rediscovery is portrayed with such grace and emotional depth - I have given well deserved 50 points to your story! Would love your thoughts on my story too—Overheard at the Edge of Goodbye: https://notionpress.com/write_contest/details/6116/overheard-at-the-edge-of-goodbye

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Excellent ????????????????

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👍 ❤️ 👏 💡 🎉