"Some festivals don't come with joy. They arrive with memory, dressed in borrowed light."
The festival came, as it always did. Early winter. Bright banners. The village stirring before dawn. Drums echoing from the hills. Children laughing with colors on their hands. Stalls being raised in the fields like dreams standing on thin legs.
And yet, for Krish, it felt like walking through someone else's celebration.
He stood at the edge of the crowd, holding a packet of sweets wrapped in brown paper, and stared at the noise as though it were a language he no longer spoke.
A year ago, Papa had walked beside him through this same crowd. His laughter had tangled with the music. He had bought Krish a clay lantern and said, "Some lights don't chase the dark. They wait for you to see them."
Krish had not lit a lantern since.
This year, everything looked the same—but smaller. Too bright, too loud. He stepped through the lanes, his feet moving from habit, his heart trailing behind.
His friends waved. He nodded. But did not stop. He passed stalls of glass bangles, hand-painted lamps, toys carved from soft wood.
He paused before the man selling paper kites. Papa had once tried to fly one here— but it had nosedived after a single breath of wind. They had both laughed.
Now, Krish only stared.
Behind him, a voice spoke: "Planning to fly one again?"
He turned. It was Meera. Holding two candles and a small cloth pouch.
"I'm just watching," Krish said.
She stood beside him, silent for a while. Then said, "Watching is okay. But maybe… light one. Even if it's small."
They walked together toward the open field where lanterns were being prepared. The sky had turned orange. The sun leaned low.
Children ran past, waving spark sticks. A man hummed an old tune beneath his breath. Somewhere, someone laughed too loudly.
Krish stopped at the edge. "I don't know if I'm ready," he whispered.
Meera didn't answer. She crouched down, unwrapped one candle, placed it gently into the lantern frame, and offered it to him.
Krish held it. His fingers trembled. It smelled like wax and wind.
He remembered Papa's hands, big and careful, helping him press the lantern open, cupping the flame against the breeze.
He lit the candle. The paper glowed. For a second, it felt like holding breath.
Then he let go. And the lantern rose.
It lifted slowly. Wobbled. Then steadied.
Krish watched it rise— not into the sky, but into the space inside him that had gone dark for too long.
The lantern was not perfect. The wind pushed it sideways. But it floated. That was enough.
Others followed. The field filled with light. Not fireworks. Just soft glows, rising gently, as if the sky itself had begun to forgive something.
Krish turned to Meera. She smiled. No words. Just warmth.
Later, at home, his mother was lighting lamps at the doorstep. She saw him, her eyes pausing on his face.
"You lit one," she said.
He nodded.
She reached into her shawl and pulled out a clay lamp—small, chipped. She held it between them. "This one was your father's favorite."
They knelt together, lit it with quiet hands, and placed it on the windowsill.
Inside the room, the shadows softened. Not disappeared. But softened.
That night, Krish sat at his desk. His hands smelled faintly of smoke. He opened his notebook. Wrote:
"Dear Papa, Tonight I lit a light. Not because I stopped missing you. But because I needed you to see me.
I stood in the middle of the world you once walked beside, and I let something rise. It didn't fly high. It wasn't graceful. But it rose. And I think that's what love does when we're ready.
It rises.
Love, Krish."
He closed the notebook. Blew gently on the lamp. But the flame stayed.
And outside, a single lantern floated above the village. Not the brightest. But the one that had waited longest to rise.