"Some days, the sky cries with you. Not to comfort, but to let you know it understands."
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The rain came unannounced.
Not with thunder. Not with storm. Just with a softness that reminded Krish of lullabies and half-sung songs his mother used to hum when he was small.
It started in the afternoon. Gray clouds drifted like forgotten thoughts. Leaves curled at the edges, ready. The birds stopped chirping, and even the wind paused to listen.
Krish sat by the window, watching the first drops make their marks on the soil. They landed like footfalls from an invisible memory.
He didn't reach for his notebook. Didn't run outside. He just watched. Because some moments don't ask for reaction. They ask for presence.
The rhythm of the rain wasn't fast. It came like breath. Steady. Deep. Familiar.
He thought of Papa's breathing— how it used to lull him to sleep on nights when the power was gone and the house was swallowed in monsoon silence.
Those were the nights when Papa would tap his fingers gently on the wooden cot. A beat that never changed. Krish used to match his breath to it, until sleep took him.
Today, the rain carried that same beat. It was like the sky had remembered something he'd forgotten.
He closed his eyes. Leaned his head against the wooden frame of the window. Let the sound soak in.
Ma was in the kitchen. She didn't say much—only moved with the scent of ginger and cumin following her like a quiet shadow.
She brought him a cup of warm milk. Didn't ask anything. Just placed it near him and sat on the other chair.
They watched the rain together. For a long time, they didn't speak. Because silence, in some seasons, is its own kind of closeness.
Then Ma broke it gently. "He loved the rain."
Krish nodded. "I know."
"He said the sky washes grief better than time ever could."
Krish smiled. "Then maybe today is our bath."
They laughed. Not loudly. Just enough.
Later, Krish stepped outside. The rain had grown braver. Thicker. But not cruel.
He let it fall on his face. Raised his palms. Felt every drop as if it carried his father's breath.
He walked barefoot to the lemon tree. The leaves were wet. The soil dark and soft.
He sat on the stool, soaked now, but unbothered.
From his pocket, he pulled out a letter—one he had written the week before, but hadn't found the right moment to let go.
The rain felt like permission.
He unfolded the paper. Read it aloud.
"Dear Papa, Today, the sky is doing what I couldn't. It's letting go. But not in sorrow. In rhythm. In honesty.
I don't cry as often anymore. But some days—like today—it sits in my throat. And instead of tears, it becomes memory. And instead of memory, it becomes music.
I miss you in seasons. In the smell of wet ground. In the sound of pots clinking. In the sudden, unexplainable ache when someone calls my name gently.
But I also carry you. In how I sit still. In how I write. In how I notice things most people pass by.
Love, Krish."
He placed the letter under a stone by the tree. The ink had already begun to smudge. But he didn't mind. Because grief wasn't made to stay perfect. It was made to stay close.
That evening, the rain slowed. The sky softened. Ma lit a small lamp by the window, and Krish sat with his journal.
He wrote:
"Today, the rain knew me. It spoke in syllables I remembered from Papa's voice. It tapped like his fingers. It sighed like his breath.
And for once, it didn't feel like the world had taken him away. It felt like it had brought him back— in rhythm, in water, in silence."
Ma came in with a blanket. Wrapped it around his shoulders.
"He'd be proud of you," she said.
Krish didn't answer. Just reached for her hand. Held it. And let the silence between them say everything that still needed saying.
Later that night, Krish dreamed of walking under a wide gray sky, barefoot, with the earth warm beneath him.
Beside him, Papa walked too. No words. Just steps. The same rhythm. One foot after the other.
They reached the riverbank, and Papa sat first, cupped his hands in the water, and said only this:
"You hear it now, don't you?"
Krish nodded. And the sky above them wept—not from pain, but from remembering.