"Some flames don't burn to chase the dark. Some burn just to say, 'I'm still here.'"
It had been a year.
Twelve slow months.
Twelve sets of seasons.
Twelve rounds of sun and silence.
The anniversary of Papa's passing came quietly.
There were no rituals planned.
No long prayers.
Just the house and its two inhabitants
who had learned how to carry loss without breaking.
But the weight of the date lingered.
Not heavy.
Just present.
Like a soft thread tied around every corner.
Ma didn't speak much that morning.
She moved through the kitchen like breath.
Measured. Quiet.
Krish woke early.
Not because he had to,
but because some days carry you before you even stand.
He found a candle.
An old one—tucked behind the books.
Off-white.
Half-used.
But still solid.
Still whole.
He took it to the garden.
The lemon tree was taller now.
Its leaves darker.
Its roots stronger.
The wooden stool waited beneath it.
Same as always.
Same as before.
He placed the candle at the base of the tree.
Lit it.
Watched the flame bloom.
Then he sat.
Not to mourn.
But to remember.
He closed his eyes.
And memory rose like steam.
Papa's voice calling from the gate.
His laugh during festival.
The way he sat with one leg crossed over the other,
and always tapped his finger to the beat of his thoughts.
Ma came outside.
Carrying two cups of tea.
She saw the candle.
Didn't speak.
Just sat beside Krish.
They sipped in silence.
Birds fluttered above.
The sky had turned the color of held-back tears.
"I dreamed of him," she finally said.
Krish turned.
"He was sitting on this stool.
Said nothing.
Just smiled.
And then… he looked at me like he knew everything would be okay."
Krish didn't reply.
He reached into his pocket
and handed her a small note.
Folded. Faded.
"Wrote it yesterday. Couldn't sleep."
She opened it.
Read silently.
It said:
"Dear Papa,
We made it through the year.
We carried you through days that didn't want to hold us.
We lit lights.
Cooked your favorite food.
We spoke of you in whispers,
then in stories,
then in laughter.
You are still here.
Not in body.
But in routine.
In echoes.
In breath.
And today, this candle burns not because you're gone,
but because you were here.
Love,
Krish."
Ma folded the note.
Pressed it to her chest.
"I'm keeping this," she whispered.
Krish nodded.
They stayed there until the candle melted low.
The wax pooled at the base.
But the flame held.
Even when the wind came,
it flickered,
but did not fall.
Ma placed her hand on Krish's shoulder.
"You've grown," she said.
"So have you."
That evening,
Krish gathered small candles from around the house.
Old ones.
Short ones.
Even broken ones.
He placed them on the windowsills.
On the porch.
By the photo frame.
He lit each one slowly.
Gently.
Like prayer.
When he stepped back,
the house looked different.
Not brighter.
But warmer.
Like it had remembered something.
Like it had forgiven the year.
Neighbors passed by.
One paused.
"Someone's birthday?"
Krish smiled.
"No. Just lighting for someone who lit us first."
The neighbor nodded.
Said nothing more.
Later,
Krish sat with his notebook.
He wrote:
"Some people leave fire behind.
Not the kind that burns.
The kind that warms your fingers
when winter won't leave.
Papa was that flame.
Not wild.
But constant.
And today,
I lit every small candle I could find
just to tell the dark,
'You don't win.'"
He folded the page.
Placed it in the candle box.
Not to hide.
But to keep.
That night,
as he lay in bed,
he saw the garden from the window.
The lemon tree.
The melted candle.
Still.
Still glowing.
Still remembering.
And he whispered,
"Thank you for staying, even when I couldn't see you."
Outside,
the flame flickered once.
Then held.
And the sky above,
soft with stars,
felt like it had been watching the whole time.