"Some of the loudest things we carry are the ones no one hears."
The days after the visit to the field moved like smoke—slow, curling, and full of things unseen.
Krish felt quieter than before. Not because he was sadder. But because something in him had shifted. Like the earth under his feet had settled a little. The weight hadn't disappeared. But it no longer dragged him down. It sat beside him.
He started walking alone in the mornings. Before school. Before the world fully woke up. He took the path behind the house that led through the sugarcane fields and opened toward the river. There was a bench there. Old, cracked. But it held him without complaint.
He sat there almost every day. With his notebook. Sometimes he wrote. Sometimes he just watched. The river moved steadily. Not in a rush. Just enough to remind him that time hadn't stopped.
One morning, a girl from his class passed by. She paused. "You always come here alone," she said.
Krish looked up. "I like the quiet," he replied.
She sat at the edge of the bench. Far enough to give him space. Close enough to mean something.
"My grandfather used to sit here too," she said after a while. "After he lost my grandma."
They didn't speak much after that. But they didn't have to. Because silence, when shared, becomes something else. Something softer.
At home, his mother noticed the change. She didn't ask questions. But she smiled more when he entered the room. Touched his hair gently when he passed by. Her voice had started to carry warmth again. Not just function.
One evening, she said, "You should visit your uncle. He's been asking for you."
Krish hesitated. His father's younger brother lived in the next village. They hadn't spoken much since the funeral. Too many words unsaid. Too many eyes that didn't meet.
But Krish agreed. Because he felt ready to listen again. Even to the silence that lived between people.
The next Saturday, he made the trip. Walked the dusty road. Through mango trees. Past fields where children flew kites.
His uncle's house looked the same. Faded blue paint. A porch with two chairs. The scent of lentils boiling somewhere inside.
His uncle stepped out. Older now. Lines around the eyes. But his smile was still familiar.
"Krish," he said, surprised but glad. "You've grown."
They sat together. Drank tea. Spoke about small things first—school, weather, football. Then the conversation shifted.
"I still remember the way your father used to laugh," his uncle said. "He had this habit of clapping once when something was really funny."
Krish smiled. "He did that with me too."
They shared memories like passing stones across a river. Carefully. Gently. So they didn't sink.
His uncle grew quiet. "I never told him enough that I loved him. We were always... busy with being brothers."
Krish nodded. "I think he knew. Even if you didn't say it."
Before he left, his uncle handed him a small envelope. "He left this in my drawer. I forgot to give it to you earlier."
Inside was a folded page. A sketch of Krish as a child, holding a kite. Drawn in charcoal. Messy, but full of feeling. Below it, one sentence: "He's always reaching for something bright."
Krish didn't cry. He just held the page to his chest. And felt full.
On the walk home, the sky turned orange. The world glowed. And for the first time in a long time, Krish didn't feel like he was walking alone.
That night, he placed the sketch on his desk. Lit a small lamp beside it. Wrote:
"Dear Papa, Even in your quiet, you saw me. Even in your leaving, you left gifts. Today I sat beside someone who missed you too. And it didn't hurt as much. Maybe because we remembered you out loud.
I think I'm learning how to carry you now. Not like a wound. But like a second heartbeat.
Love, Krish."
He placed the letter under his pillow. Then turned off the light.
In the space between silences, he dreamed of laughter. Of kites. And of hands reaching for something bright.