"When someone you love is gone, even the smallest sound they left behind becomes a song."
The winter wind had started creeping in through the cracks of the windows. Cold mornings. Shorter days. Longer shadows. Krish had always disliked the cold. But this year, it felt different. He liked how the cold made things quieter. Still. Like the world was pausing for breath.
Every morning, his mother wrapped her shawl tighter. She lit the fire earlier than usual. The kettle stayed on longer. And Krish started waking up before the sun. Not because he had to. But because the quiet felt like a friend.
He would sit near the fire, warming his hands, watching his mother move through the kitchen in slow, practiced steps. She had always been graceful in silence. But now, her silence had a different tone. Not sorrowful. Just gentle. Worn. Like a song she kept humming, even when no one listened.
One morning, while she stirred the tea, she whispered, "You have his eyes." Krish looked up. "People always said that," she added, not looking at him. "But now I see it more. The way you look at the world."
He didn't know how to answer. So he just smiled. Took the cup she handed him. Drank slowly. Each sip felt like something old and sacred.
School was harder in winter. Fewer smiles. Stiff fingers. Cold benches. But Krish didn't mind. He was used to cold things now. Cold didn't scare him. For him, it was the warmth that hurt sometimes. Because it reminded him of what was no longer here.
One evening, he found an old voice recorder in a drawer. Rusty. With a cracked button. He almost threw it away. But something made him press play.
At first, nothing. Just static. Then—a laugh. His father's laugh. And then a voice, "Testing, testing... Krish, say something!" A baby giggle. A woman's voice—his mother's, younger, brighter, "He can't talk yet! He just wants to eat the mic!"
Krish sat on the floor, frozen. The recorder in his lap. The sound washed over him like sunlight. He pressed it to his chest. Closed his eyes. And just listened.
He played it three times that night. And once again the next morning.
That day, he didn't talk much in school. But he wrote a poem. It wasn't assigned. He just needed to write it.
"The voice I heard was not from today, but it filled my room like it never went away.
A laugh in static, a whisper of tea, a woman saying, 'Some day, he'll sound like me.'
And maybe I do. And maybe I will. But I'd give up my voice just to hear theirs still."
He didn't read it aloud. He just folded it into the pages of his science book. Where no one would find it. Except maybe the wind.
That night, he sat with his mother again. They watched the fire together. She rubbed her hands. Then said softly, "Your Papa once recorded my singing. On that thing." She nodded toward the recorder. Krish looked up. "Do you still have it?"
She shook her head. "I recorded over it years ago. I didn't think it mattered."
He didn't say anything. Because he understood. Some things don't become valuable until they're gone.
After she went to bed, he sat alone. He picked up the recorder again. Pressed play. He closed his eyes. And let the static fill the room.
It wasn't music. But it was something deeper. It was memory. Alive.
The next weekend, he visited the small electronics shop in town. He asked if the recorder could be fixed. The man behind the counter took it gently, and said, "It'll take time."
"Take all the time it needs," Krish replied.
When he returned home, he didn't tell his mother. He wanted it to be a surprise. Not a gift. Just a return.
That evening, he sat at his desk and wrote another letter.
"Dear Papa, Today I heard you. Your laugh. Your voice. Mama's giggle in the background. I didn't know how much I missed sound until it found me.
Thank you for recording that moment. It felt like you came back to visit. Just for a minute. Just long enough to remind me: You were real. You were here. You are still a part of me.
Love, Krish."
He didn't cry that night. But he didn't sleep either. He just lay under his blanket, listening to the wind through the cracks in the window.
And he imagined his father's voice riding it home.