"Grief doesn't only live in the past. Sometimes, it follows us into the future, sitting beside our dreams."
The days started stretching again. The sun lingered a little longer. The frost on the grass didn't bite as sharply. Birds returned, slowly. The wind was no longer harsh. Just cool, like a breath between songs.
Krish had started sitting by the window every evening. Not to watch anything in particular. But just to sit. To feel. To breathe where the light came in.
The window faced the old path where Papa used to walk back from work. Boots dusty. Shoulders tired. Smile soft. Krish still looked for that shape. Even now. Even knowing.
He brought his notebook to the windowsill. Wrote in the light. Not long letters. Just lines. Some like: "I'm still listening, even if I can't hear you." "You were the first person who made me believe I could be more." "Some things stay. Like your voice when I close my eyes."
One afternoon, his teacher asked the class, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" The question hit harder than it should have. He thought of what Papa used to say: "Whatever you are, be kind."
Others wrote "doctor," "pilot," "engineer." Krish stared at his paper for a long time. Then he wrote, "I want to be someone who remembers."
His teacher read it. Didn't ask for more. Just nodded.
That evening, his mother found him watching the road again. She didn't ask why. She just sat beside him. Two cups of tea. Two hearts missing the same man.
"He talked about you a lot," she said. "When you weren't around. He worried he was too far, too often." Krish looked down. "He was trying. That was enough."
She smiled. "You remind me of him more and more."
He didn't know if it was a compliment or a burden. But he said thank you.
That night, he dreamed of a house made of sky. Soft walls. Bright windows. Inside, his father was cooking. Wearing that old sweater. Whistling off-tune. He looked up and said, "Took you long enough to visit."
They didn't talk about sadness. They just ate rice with too much salt and laughed.
When Krish woke up, he didn't cry. He wrote the dream down. Every detail. Because dreams fade. But some deserve to be remembered.
The next weekend, he helped his mother clean the attic. They found an old box marked "Krish." Inside were drawings, broken toys, a crumpled birthday card with Papa's handwriting: "To my brave boy, may your dreams be taller than mountains."
He didn't speak for a while. Just held the card.
His mother placed a hand on his shoulder. "He always believed in you." Krish whispered, "Even when I didn't believe in myself."
That evening, they sat under the stars. She told him how Papa once failed his tenth-grade exams. "He thought he'd never be good enough. But he kept trying."
Krish looked at her, surprised. "You never told me that." She shrugged. "Some stories wait until they're needed."
He thought about that all night. About failures. And stories. And the strength it takes to keep going.
The next day, he wrote again. "Dear Papa, I saw you in a dream last night. We ate rice together. You didn't say much. But it felt like home. I hope wherever you are, you dream of us too."
He folded it. Placed it between the pages of a book. The one they used to read together.
And for the first time, the window didn't feel like a waiting place. It felt like a doorway. To memory. To love. To whatever came next.