"Sometimes healing isn't about finding something new—it's about noticing what was always quietly waiting for us to return."
It had rained in the night. Not heavily. Just enough to leave the ground soft and the air smelling like beginnings.
Krish stepped outside before the sun fully rose. The sky was still yawning— shades of ash, lilac, and gold blending slowly as if the day wasn't sure how it wanted to begin.
His slippers sank slightly into the damp soil. But he didn't mind. The garden looked fuller after the rain. More alive. The lemon sapling had droplets clinging to every leaf. They glimmered like tiny prayers.
He picked up a broom and started clearing the fallen leaves. It was quiet work. Rhythmic. Like sweeping sadness in small circles.
His mother appeared at the doorway, her hair still tied in sleep. She watched for a moment, then said, "There's an old path behind the well— one your father used to walk. We haven't taken it in years."
Krish turned. "Can we go there today?"
She smiled. "Yes."
By mid-morning, they were ready. She packed two rotis and pickles in a tin, and Krish took his notebook.
The path behind the well was narrow. It was the kind of trail the earth remembers, even when people forget. Grass had grown over parts of it, but their steps flattened it gently.
Birds rustled in the trees. Crickets sang quietly. The sky opened above like a book, and every page smelled like monsoon and memory.
As they walked, his mother pointed to places— "There he stopped once to fix his sandal." "There's where he found a baby squirrel."
Each story came like a pebble skipping across a river. And Krish listened like someone gathering rain.
After a while, they reached a clearing. There was nothing grand about it. Just a small space surrounded by trees. But the air there felt still, like it had been holding its breath for someone to return.
They sat under the shade. His mother unwrapped the food. They ate quietly. And Krish felt something open inside him— not a wound, but a window.
He pulled out his notebook. Started writing. Not carefully. Just truthfully.
"Dear Papa, We found the path you used to walk. It hasn't forgotten your feet. Neither have we.
The earth still bends in places where you paused. The trees still lean as if listening for your voice.
We sat where you once stood. And I think I saw a shadow of your smile in the sunlight.
I don't feel lost today. I feel returned. To something you left behind.
Not your things. But your rhythm. Your way of walking into the world gently. Of leaving behind silence that speaks."
He didn't read it aloud. But he gave it to the wind. Let it carry the words wherever they needed to go.
On the walk back, his mother held his hand for the first time in months. He didn't pull away.
They walked slower. Not because they were tired. But because they were full. Full of something sacred. Something still.
Back home, Krish placed a small stone from the clearing on his windowsill. He didn't label it. Didn't explain it.
But every time he looked at it, it reminded him: Some paths don't appear until you're ready to walk them. And some places wait for us like a father watching quietly from the garden wall.