"Not all healing roars. Some of it arrives like a whisper, through cracks we thought were only for rain."
March began with golden air. The sky stopped hiding. And the morning sun slipped into the house like an old friend. It touched everything: The clay cups by the sink, The worn doormat where Papa once wiped his shoes, The old calendar that still held Papa's name in red on certain dates.
Krish stood at the window, his fingers warm against the glass. He watched the sunlight stretch across the yard, as if trying to reach back into time. Birds were returning to the trees. Their voices were softer than he remembered, but maybe that was just his heart learning to listen again.
Inside the house, change came in small ways. His mother began moving things around. Not big changes. Little ones. The old curtains were washed and replaced with brighter ones. The cushions on the sofa got new covers — maroon and mustard. She even placed a small stool near the window, where light gathered like memory.
"Color matters," she said, arranging marigolds in a clay vase. Krish nodded, even though he didn't fully understand. But the marigolds looked like tiny suns, standing in places where darkness used to rest.
He had been speaking more lately. Not much. Just enough. Enough to remind himself he was still here. At dinner, he didn't stare at his plate as long. He even told a story once. A short one about a crow that had stolen someone's sandwich on the way to school. His mother laughed. A real laugh. Not the kind that tries to hide sorrow behind politeness.
One morning, while folding clothes, she called out, "Krish! There's something for you." She held out a cream-colored envelope. Thick. Formal. "From the city," she added.
Krish opened it with slow fingers. Inside was a letter. A letter from an art competition he had entered months ago. Back when grief had blurred his days, and drawing was the only thing that made sense.
He had drawn a picture of his father, walking home under a sky full of birds. Boots dusty. Shoulders bent. But his eyes soft. It was simple. Honest. And full of silence.
The letter read: *"Dear Krish, Thank you for your submission. Your piece, 'The Way He Came Home,' moved us deeply. It felt like silence speaking. We would be honored to display your work in this year's city children's gallery."
Krish didn't smile right away. He just stared at the words. His name printed clearly beneath them. Then he reached into his drawer, pulled out the original drawing. Touched it. Whispered, "I drew you into the world, Papa. And now others can see you too."
His mother hugged him. She didn't say congratulations. She just pressed her cheek to his hair and whispered, "He would've stood in front of that picture for hours, smiling like he built the whole sky behind it."
That evening, they cooked his father's favorite meal. Plain rice. Spiced lentils with too much garlic. Fried tomatoes with red chilies.
Krish laid the table. He placed three plates. Paused. Then quietly took one away. Instead, he lit a candle. Placed it in the center. Let the flame flicker between them.
His mother smiled through her tears. "He'd say the dal needs more salt." Krish chuckled. "And then eat two servings without complaining."
They laughed together. Not loudly. Not for long. But enough. Enough to remind themselves that memory didn't always have to hurt. Sometimes, it could hold them gently.
After dinner, Krish stepped outside. Notebook on his lap. Wristwatch on his wrist. Still broken. Still worn. But still his.
He looked at the stars. So many of them. As if the sky was finally ready to be seen again.
He wrote:
"Dear Papa, The world didn't stop when you left. And that used to make me angry. It felt wrong that people kept laughing, birds kept singing, light kept rising.
But now I see it differently. Maybe love doesn't mean stopping. Maybe it means carrying. Carrying your smile. Your voice. Your kindness.
I still talk to you. In my mind. In this notebook. In the way I fold my clothes or walk home from school. You're in those small things. And now, you're on a wall in a gallery too. For everyone to see. I think you'd laugh at that. Then pretend it wasn't a big deal.
But I know you'd be proud. Because I am too. Of you. Of me. Of this quiet way we keep going.
Love, Krish."
He folded the letter slowly. Placed it beneath the marigold pot on the windowsill. The petals glowed in the moonlight. A breeze came through the open window. Soft. Kind. Like a breath from somewhere far but familiar.
And in that moment, Krish didn't feel like a boy left behind. He felt like a boy being carried forward. By love. By light. By a voice that never needed to be loud to be heard.