"We grow up, but some questions stay small. Like, why do people leave? And why do some never return?"
The sun returned after four days of rain. It wasn't loud. It didn't shine too brightly. It just slipped through the clouds, quietly, like someone entering a room without knocking.
He sat on the front steps, arms wrapped around his knees. The stone was still wet beneath him. But the sky looked cleaner now. It looked like something was beginning again. Even though nothing really had.
His mother came outside with a cup of tea. She placed it beside him, sat down, and looked at the same sky. They didn't speak. Some mornings didn't need words. Just presence.
After a few minutes, she asked, "Do you still dream about him?" He didn't answer immediately. Then said softly, "Sometimes." She nodded. "I do too."
He picked up the cup and held it with both hands. It was warm. Not hot. Not cold. Like something that used to burn but had cooled down. Just like their grief.
School had reopened. The teacher asked the class to bring something old from home for "memory day." Kids brought toys, photos, medals. He brought his father's broken wristwatch. It didn't tick. But it told time better than any clock.
He stood in front of the class, held up the watch, and said, "This belonged to someone who taught me the value of time... by not having enough of it." The room stayed silent for a few seconds longer than usual. And the teacher just said, "Thank you, Krish."
At lunch, one of the boys sat beside him. "Your dad died recently, right?" He nodded. The boy pulled out a chocolate from his pocket and placed it in front of him. "My dad left when I was four. Never came back. So... I kinda get it."
That was the first time someone outside his family understood. Not by explaining. But by sharing the same hole in the chest. Two kids, holding something invisible. Together.
He started spending more time under the neem tree after school. Sometimes with books. Sometimes with just his thoughts. He liked how the leaves moved even when the air was still. Like they were alive with old secrets.
His mother began smiling more at dinner. Not always. But enough for him to believe she was trying. She started humming old songs again. And he didn't tell her, But he had started sleeping without the wristwatch under his pillow.
One evening, she brought out an old suitcase. Inside were yellowed papers, faded photos, and small items wrapped in cloth. "He wanted you to have these one day," she said. He picked up a photo—his father holding him as a baby. They were both laughing.
He stared at it for a long time. Then placed it beside his pillow that night. It stayed there for the rest of the week. And every night, before closing his eyes, he looked at it and whispered, "We're okay now, Papa. Not whole. But okay."