"Some wounds don't close to disappear. They close to remember without hurting."
---
Krish hadn't looked at it in a long time.
Not closely. Not intentionally.
The scar on his knee.
It was thin now, pale. Not raised or angry like before. Just a quiet line across the skin.
He had gotten it years ago, during a picnic in the forest. He was ten. Running too fast, not watching where he placed his feet.
A sharp stone. A fall. Blood.
Papa had carried him back to the mat, not panicked, just calm. He had rinsed the wound with water from the bottle, then torn part of his own shirt to tie around it.
Krish remembered that moment clearly. Not because of the pain, but because of the way Papa smiled as if the world hadn't just cracked.
"You'll have a scar," he had said, "but it'll be one you earned. A reminder that you ran freely."
Krish hadn't thought of that moment for years. But today, while folding his pants, he saw the scar again. And this time, it didn't feel like a flaw. It felt like a memory.
He touched it lightly, and something stirred inside— a warmth that rose through his chest like sunlight after a long rain.
He sat by the window, notebook in hand, feather tied around his wrist like a small token.
He began to write:
"Dear Papa, You once told me not to hide my scars. That they were proof I tried.
I never really understood that. Until now.
Because for a long time, I only saw pain. I only felt the loss. But today, I looked at the scar on my knee and I didn't feel broken. I felt brave.
And I think that's what grief becomes, if we let it—it becomes a soft place that reminds us we survived.
Love, Krish."
He folded the letter. Slipped it inside a book Papa once read, a novel with yellowing pages and underlined lines.
Ma walked in later, saw him near the shelf. "That book again?"
Krish nodded. "I found one of his notes inside. He underlined this: 'Pain, when remembered with love, becomes something holy.'"
Ma smiled, her eyes glinting with recognition. "He loved that line. He said it was why he kept old shirts and broken tools. Even things that didn't work—because they once did."
Krish touched the feather at his wrist. "Even scars?"
She nodded. "Especially scars."
That evening, Krish walked to the river. It had rained again, and the path was wet, the stones slick.
He found the same place he always did— a flat rock under the tamarind tree.
He rolled up his pants, placed his bare feet into the water, and let the current touch his skin.
He looked at his scar, now shining under the last light of the day.
And then, without thinking, he smiled at it.
Not because he was proud of the injury. But because it was a mark left by a day he still carried.
The laughter. The fall. The shirt tied like a bandage. The smile of his father saying, "Scars are proof you lived."
A boy skipping stones nearby noticed him. Pointed. "You got hurt?"
Krish shook his head. "A long time ago."
The boy nodded. Then lifted his own leg to show a bruise. "Mine too. Yesterday."
They laughed. And in that laughter, something healed again.
Later that night, Krish found an old box. Inside were bits and pieces: a button from Papa's coat, a strip of cloth, a broken watch face, and a small toy car with chipped paint.
He added something new: a drawing. Just a sketch of his knee, and the scar across it.
Beneath it, he wrote: "The scar that smiled back."
He closed the box gently. Placed it beside his desk. Not as a relic, but as a record.
That night, as rain tapped lightly against the windows, Krish didn't feel like a boy mourning. He felt like a boy remembering, a boy still walking, a boy who had loved deeply—and been loved in return.
The scar was still there. Always would be.
But now, it didn't feel like something left behind. It felt like something carried forward.