"Some people leave behind footsteps that keep walking beside us, even when we think we're walking alone."
The morning began with wind that smelled of the hills. Fresh. Cold. Awake. It swept through the village like a song without words. The leaves danced on rooftops. The bells at the temple swayed slightly. Even the birds waited before singing.
Krish stood on the porch with a shawl wrapped around his shoulders. He didn't shiver. He watched. Let the wind pass through his thoughts.
He hadn't visited the market in weeks. But today, he offered. "Shall I get the groceries?" he asked his mother. She turned, surprised. Then nodded, hiding a small smile behind her tea.
He took the cloth bag. Wore his father's slippers. They were loose. But still warm with old memory.
The walk to the market was familiar. Past the banyan tree. Past the children playing marbles in the dust. Past the broken milestone that still read "Hope: 1km."
At the market, people greeted him. Some with nods. Some with long looks that said, "You're growing." He bought onions, tomatoes, flour. Waited patiently. Didn't speak much. But he smiled once, without realizing. And that was enough.
At the last stall, the shopkeeper said, "You walk just like him."
Krish paused. "Like who?"
"Your father," the man said. "Head a little forward, like you're thinking while walking."
Krish didn't answer. He just looked down at the ground beneath his steps. Felt the echo he hadn't noticed. Felt the presence he hadn't seen.
On the way home, the wind returned. It pulled gently at his sleeves. Like a hand. Or a voice. Or a moment trying to say, "I'm still here."
When he returned, his mother was hanging laundry. She looked at him, then at the sky, and said, "It's going to rain soon."
He helped her fold the clothes. Held the edge of a sari that still smelled of her skin. When they were done, he turned to her. "Can we go somewhere this weekend?"
She looked up. "Where?"
"Just somewhere we haven't been since... before."
She didn't ask what he meant by 'before.' She nodded. And that was enough.
They chose the forest trail near the hills. Where the trees bent like old monks. Where Papa once took them for a picnic. Where Krish had fallen and scraped his knee, and Papa had kissed his forehead, saying, "Scars are stories in skin."
The path was still there. A little narrower. But familiar. They walked slowly. His mother carried water. Krish carried the memories.
Halfway through, they sat on a rock. A quiet spot. Birds overhead. The sound of wind in the leaves.
His mother pulled out a photo from her bag. Old. Bent at the corners. It showed the three of them. Papa with a stick, pretending it was a sword. Krish laughing. His mother mid-blink, smiling through the blur.
"We were happy that day," she said.
Krish took the photo. Held it in his lap. The silence grew around them. But not heavy. Just big. Like a sky that stretches further than your eyes.
He said softly, "I don't want to forget how his voice sounded."
"You won't," she said. "It'll come back to you in strange ways. Through someone else's laugh. Or your own words when you least expect it."
Krish nodded. "I still write to him."
"I know," she said. "I find your pages tucked everywhere."
They laughed. Not long. But long enough.
That night, Krish sat by the window. The photo in one hand. His notebook in the other. The rain had started. Soft taps on the roof.
He wrote:
"Dear Papa, today we walked a path you once loved. It still remembers you. So do the trees. And so do we.
I saw a photo of you, sword in hand. You looked ridiculous. And wonderful. I'm learning to smile at memories now. Even when they sting a little.
A man said I walk like you. I didn't know. But maybe it's true. Maybe you're still walking with me. Maybe you never stopped.
Love, Krish."
He folded the page. Placed it on the desk beside the photo.
And before he went to sleep, he whispered to the rain, "Keep his footsteps beside mine."