"Sometimes, the thing that breaks isn't the glass—it's the part of you that thought the memory was safe."
It happened on a Sunday.
The kind of day meant for resting.
For folding clean clothes.
For letting time pass without questioning it.
The house was quiet.
Outside, birds picked at the last crumbs of morning.
Inside, the air felt still—as if even the wind had decided to stay away.
Krish was in the hallway.
Just passing through.
Carrying a stack of books when his shoulder brushed the wall.
Not hard.
Just enough.
A soft crack echoed.
Then the sound of glass shattering.
He turned.
A photo frame had fallen.
Not just any frame.
The one with the last picture they had taken as three.
Papa, Ma, and him.
He dropped the books.
Kneeling quickly,
he gathered the pieces like they were something living.
But the damage was done.
The glass had fractured straight across Papa's face.
Not completely,
but just enough to split the smile.
Krish froze.
He didn't cry.
Not at first.
He just stared,
as if the break had happened inside him instead of the wall.
His fingers trembled.
One shard had a smear of blood.
He hadn't even noticed he'd been cut.
Ma came running.
Saw the frame.
Saw his hands.
Saw his face.
And said nothing.
She knelt beside him.
Gently took the pieces from his hands.
Wrapped them in an old cloth.
"It's just glass," she whispered.
But Krish shook his head.
"It was his face," he choked.
"It was his smile. And I broke it."
His mother looked at him,
her eyes full of something deep and still.
Then she pulled him close.
Tighter than she had in months.
And finally,
Krish broke.
He wept into her shawl,
as if the frame had held back every tear until now.
His body shook.
His voice cracked.
"I didn't mean to. I swear, Ma, I didn't mean to."
"I know," she whispered.
"I know, my son."
They sat on the cold floor.
Wrapped in silence,
wrapped in grief,
wrapped in each other.
When the tears slowed,
Ma wiped his cheeks,
stood up,
and said,
"We'll fix it."
"But the glass—"
"No," she said.
"Not the glass. The memory. We'll fix that."
She took out an old box from the cupboard.
Inside were photos,
some faded,
some blurred.
But one was almost the same as the broken one—
Papa smiling, hand on Krish's shoulder.
"Not the same day," she said.
"But the same love."
They placed it in a new frame.
Hung it on the same nail.
Krish stood back.
The crack was gone.
But he could still feel it inside.
That night,
he couldn't sleep.
He sat at his desk,
opened his notebook,
and began to write—
not carefully,
but as if the words had been waiting behind the break.
"Dear Papa,
Today I broke your smile.
Not on purpose.
Just by passing too close.
And I realized something—I've been walking too carefully around your memory.
Afraid to touch it.
Afraid to break it.
But maybe it's okay
if things break sometimes.
Because love doesn't live in the glass.
It lives in the remembering.
And Ma was right.
We can fix the memory.
We can build it again.
Not the same.
But still yours.
Still ours.
Love,
Krish."
He folded the letter.
Slipped it into the cloth that held the broken pieces.
Not to throw them away.
But to keep them close.
Because even broken things
can be held with love.
And in the quiet of that night,
he lit a small candle by the new frame.
Let the light fall gently on the photo.
Papa's smile still looked back at him.
And for the first time,
Krish didn't feel like he had to protect it.
He just had to remember it.