"Some rooms don't echo anymore. Not because they've grown silent, but because someone stopped calling their name."
Winter stayed longer than it was supposed to. The cold didn't ask for permission. It crept into cracks, into bones, into memories. Krish woke up with a chill every morning, but it wasn't just the weather. It was something else. Something that hadn't left since the funeral.
His room felt different now. Not sad. Not broken. Just still. Like it didn't know whether to keep being a bedroom or turn into a museum.
The books on his shelf stayed untouched. The calendar on the wall still marked his father's birthday with a red pen. He hadn't crossed it out. He didn't know if he ever would.
That morning, he sat on the floor. Legs crossed. He looked around his room like it was a stranger. Everything felt the same. But nothing felt familiar.
He reached for the drawer where he kept the letters. Some written. Some never finished. Some started with "Dear Papa." Some ended with nothing at all. He held one to his chest. Didn't read it. Didn't need to.
His mother knocked softly. "Breakfast," she said. He nodded. "I'll be down soon."
She paused. Then added, "The headmaster called yesterday. Said you haven't turned in your last two assignments." He looked away. "I forgot."
"You used to never forget," she said. Then silence. And footsteps walking away.
He didn't go to school that day. He stayed home. Didn't tell anyone. He just sat.
He found his father's old coat in the closet. It was heavier than he remembered. The pockets were empty. But the scent was still there. That strange mix of sweat, dust, and something warm he couldn't name.
He wore it. Sat on the edge of his bed. Stared at the wall. Then suddenly, tears. Not gentle ones. Not the kind that roll slowly. But the kind that come like a wave. Breaking without warning.
He buried his face into the coat. It didn't hug back. But it didn't pull away either.
That afternoon, his mother came into the room. Found him sleeping in the coat, curled like a comma. She didn't wake him. Just sat on the floor beside him. Placed her hand on his back. And whispered, "He would've been proud of you. Even on your sad days."
He woke up hours later. Alone again. But her words stayed.
The next day, he returned to school. Didn't say much. Didn't smile. But he sat in class. Turned in his assignments. And during the break, he helped a younger boy who had dropped his lunch. Not because anyone asked. But because his father would have.
In the evening, he visited the village library. It was small. Dusty. But quiet in a comforting way. He pulled out a book at random. It was poetry. He didn't understand all of it. But one line stayed:
"To lose someone is to carry their silence inside you forever."
He copied it into his notebook. Underlined it twice.
That night, he didn't write a letter. He just opened his notebook, and added a new page titled: "Things I Still Want to Say."
He wrote:
I miss your footsteps.
I wish you had seen my drawing last week.
I wore your coat. It made me cry.
I didn't do well on my test, but I tried.
Mama smiled today. I think you would've liked that.
Then he closed the book. Placed it under his pillow. And for the first time in days, he slept without tears.
In the morning, he woke up early. Not because of nightmares. But because the sun hit his face. And for once, he didn't mind the light.
He stood in the middle of his room. Took a deep breath. Whispered, "Okay. Let's begin again."
He folded the coat neatly. Placed it back in the closet. Left the door slightly open. Because some things should never be shut all the way.
Then he looked around his room. And it didn't feel like a museum anymore. It felt like a story. Still being written.