"Sometimes, we carry people in small things—a smile, a sound, a way of holding a spoon—long after they are gone."
The days that followed were slower. Not heavier, not quieter. Just slower.
Like time had begun to walk instead of run. Like every hour paused a little longer, unsure if it should continue.
Krish began noticing the little things again. The shape of the clouds in the evening. The sound of dry leaves crunching under his feet. The way his mother adjusted her shawl twice before stepping out the door.
He had grown used to the emptiness. But now he was learning to see what was still full.
At school, his teacher handed back an essay. "Write about someone you miss." Krish had written about his father, but not just the pain. He wrote about the way Papa laughed when he forgot the stove was on. How he whistled the same tune while fixing the roof. How he always used too much salt in lentils, but still ate it proudly.
The teacher returned the paper with a soft smile and a red circle that said: "Real."
He didn't know if it was a compliment or something else. But it stayed with him all day.
At home, he pulled out the old photo album. Not the recent one—the older one that smelled like dust and damp. He flipped through pictures of a life that once felt distant. Then stopped at one.
It was Papa, in a wool sweater, sitting in a chair by the fire. Krish was on his lap, maybe four years old. They were both laughing at something beyond the frame.
He stared at that photo for minutes. Not because of what it showed. But because of what it made him feel.
Like Papa never really left. He just stopped being seen.
Later that evening, he helped his mother in the kitchen. She handed him potatoes to peel. He peeled them too thick. She laughed softly, the kind of laugh she hadn't shared in weeks.
"Your father used to do the same," she said. "He wasted half the potato." Krish smiled. "Maybe it's genetic."
They stood side by side, cooking quietly. He stirred the lentils. She added the spices. For a few moments, the kitchen didn't feel lonely. It felt full again. Not of people. But of memories that breathed.
After dinner, he stepped outside. The stars were bright. No clouds. No wind. Just a quiet night with a sky full of questions.
He looked up. "Do you still see us, Papa?" The stars blinked. A light breeze passed. And for some reason, he smiled.
Because something about that night didn't feel empty. It felt watched. Held.
The next day, he wore his father's old sweater to school. It was loose around the arms. Smelled like mothballs and the back of a drawer. But it made him feel safe. Like he was walking with someone.
Some classmates asked, "Is that your dad's?" He nodded. "Looks warm," one of them said. He just smiled. Warm didn't always come from the cloth. Sometimes it came from memory.
During lunch, he shared his food. Not because he had extra. But because Papa used to do the same. With workers. With neighbors. With strangers.
"If you have enough to fill your plate," he used to say, "you have enough to share."
The day moved gently. He laughed once during class. Answered two questions. And during the walk home, he stopped to pick up a small paper kite stuck in a bush. He remembered flying one with Papa, long ago. When the sky was a playground.
He tucked the kite into his notebook. Not to fly. Just to keep.
That evening, he sat beside his mother with tea. She looked tired, but peaceful. She said, "You've grown up a lot, Krish." He replied, "You too." They laughed.
She asked, "Do you think he knows how much you miss him?" He looked at his cup. "I think he misses us more."
That night, before sleep, he did something he hadn't done in weeks. He wrote a letter.
"Dear Papa, Today felt a little less empty. Maybe because I remembered how you laughed. Maybe because Mama smiled. Or maybe because I wore your sweater and it made people kinder.
I know you're not coming back. But I don't think you really left either. You're in my habits. In Mama's stories. In the way lentils smell at dinner.
I won't stop missing you. But I think I've started carrying you differently. Not like a hole in my chest. More like a light in my pocket.
Love, Krish."
He folded the letter and placed it inside the old notebook. Next to the drawing of a house he made when he was six. Papa was in that drawing too. Still holding his hand.