"Some signs don't shout. They arrive like a breath—soft, sudden, and certain."
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It was just a feather.
Small. White. Resting on the edge of Krish's window.
But for some reason, it made his breath catch.
It was early morning. The kind of light that moves gently, as if afraid to wake the world too fast. The sky was pearl-gray. The lemon tree stood still in the mist. And on the windowsill, that feather waited.
Krish stared at it from his bed. Didn't move. Didn't even blink. Because some things, though ordinary, arrive wrapped in something else.
And this— this feather— felt like more than just a bit of drifted down.
It looked placed. Intentional. Almost whispered.
He rose slowly, barefoot, and walked to the window. He touched the glass. Then opened it.
The feather didn't move.
He reached for it. It was cool. Soft. Weightless.
Yet, when he held it, it felt like holding a memory too delicate to name.
He turned it over in his fingers. Closed his eyes. And Papa's voice came to him— not as words, but as presence.
As if the feather had carried him in. As if the morning itself had been waiting for this moment.
He sat down at his desk. Lit the candle from the anniversary. And began to write.
"Dear Papa, A feather came to visit today. And for some reason, it felt like you.
Not in form. But in feeling.
You always told me to listen to the small things. To the rustle of leaves, to the sigh of an empty room, to the pause between raindrops.
I think this feather was one of those small things. A reminder. That you're still near.
Still part of the quiet."
He folded the letter. Didn't seal it. Left it beside the feather.
Ma entered the room with tea. Paused when she saw the candle.
"You lit it again," she said.
Krish nodded. Held up the feather.
She smiled. Her eyes shimmered. "He used to collect these," she said. "Would tuck them in books. Said they were signs."
"Signs of what?"
"That something was listening."
Krish stared at the feather again. Then whispered, "Maybe it still is."
They drank tea in silence. The candle flickered. The feather stayed.
Later, Krish went to the garden. Held the feather in his palm, as if offering it to the wind.
But the wind didn't take it.
So he carried it to the lemon tree. Tied it to one of the lower branches with red thread. Let it sway.
Not to lose it. But to give it a place to rest.
That afternoon, he walked through the village. The festival lights were still strung from days ago. A soft glow clung to the air.
At the bookstore, he asked for a blank journal. The old shopkeeper handed him one with a deep blue cover. A feather embossed in gold on the front.
Krish smiled. "Fate has a sense of humor," he said.
The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow. "You mean timing?"
"No," Krish said. "Whispers."
He began the new journal that night. Not with a letter. But a sentence:
"This is the place where signs become stories."
He wrote about the feather. About the way it made the morning feel less lonely. About how some silences arrive full of meaning.
And he wrote a poem:
"The sky dropped a softness on my windowsill, and it asked nothing of me— just to be seen.
So I saw it. And in that seeing, I remembered every quiet thing you left behind."
He left the journal open. Let the candlelight kiss the page.
As he got ready for sleep, he peeked out the window. The feather on the tree swayed in the breeze.
Above it, the stars were beginning to wake.
And Krish felt something inside him shift— a small unlocking. A warmth beneath the sadness.
He didn't feel healed. He felt connected.
And maybe that, he thought, was the first step toward something new.