"Not every meeting fills the emptiness. Sometimes, it reminds you it's still there."
The days ticked by slowly.
Each one felt heavier than the last. Each sunrise reminded him that the day was getting closer — the day his father would return. His father, who had been just a voice on phone calls and a face in photographs. His father, whose hugs he imagined more than felt.
And now, suddenly, that man was coming back. After years.
Not forever. Just for five days.
Five days. After all those years.
The morning of the return was quieter than expected.
No festival drums. No sweets being cooked. Just the usual birds and the rustle of leaves in the wind.
But his heart wasn't quiet. It thumped wildly, like it didn't know what to feel.
His mother was busy in the kitchen. She woke up earlier than usual, cooking all his father's favorite foods. Chicken curry. Fried bitter gourd. Sweet rice pudding.
She combed her hair neatly, wore her best shawl — the one she only wore on Dashain.
"You're looking beautiful today, Mama," he said.
She smiled without looking up. "He's coming home."
They waited near the road where the bus usually stopped.
The boy held his hands behind his back, clutching the small welcome note he had scribbled late at night. It wasn't perfect. Just a torn paper with messy handwriting:
"Welcome back, Papa. I missed you."
The bus came. The doors opened.
And there he was.
His father stepped down slowly, wearing a faded jacket, his face rough with unshaven beard, eyes tired… but smiling.
The boy froze.
The face was familiar. But not the same.
Years had changed the man — made him thinner, older. Like a tree that had stood against too many storms.
His mother ran first. The hug was tight, long — the kind of hug that said everything words couldn't.
He just stood there, watching.
His father turned and looked at him.
Their eyes met.
For a second, the world paused.
"You've grown so tall," his father said, walking forward.
He didn't know what to say.
"I... I'm in Class 6 now," the boy stammered.
His father smiled and placed a hand on his head. "Already smarter than me."
The boy wanted to hug him. Cry. Say how much he missed him.
But he just nodded.
Back at home, the lunch was silent.
Plates clinked. Water poured. No one spoke much.
His father complimented the food. His mother smiled, shy and proud.
The boy ate slowly. His throat felt tight.
"I brought gifts," his father said, opening his dusty bag.
There were clothes — a new jacket, too big for him. Chocolates, half-melted. A toy car, red and shiny.
He thanked him, but quietly.
That night, he lay in bed listening to their voices from the next room. His mother asking about life abroad. His father replying in low tones — about factories, tired legs, crowded rooms, and missing home.
He hugged his pillow.
He didn't feel close to his father. He felt… like a guest in his own home.
The next day, the father tried harder.
He walked the boy to school, carrying his bag. But they didn't talk much.
At school, the friends teased him, "Is that your dad? He looks strict."
He smiled faintly, not sure what to say.
When he returned home, his father was fixing an old chair in the courtyard. Sweating, focused.
The boy stood near the door, watching.
That evening, they sat together and played ludo. His mother watched, amused.
But it still felt like something was missing.
They were smiling. But the smiles were hollow.
On the third day, the boy tried.
He showed his father the diary — the one he had written in after returning from the city.
"This is mine," he said. "I wrote everything I felt."
His father took it, flipped a few pages, then placed it on the table.
"You've become a writer now?" he chuckled.
The boy smiled nervously.
But inside, something cracked.
That wasn't the reaction he hoped for.
On the fourth day, they went to the riverside.
The boy walked ahead, skipping stones on the water. His father followed, hands behind his back.
"You used to come here as a baby," he said. "I'd imagine you playing here while I was working abroad."
The boy didn't respond.
His father sat beside him on the stone bench. "I know I missed a lot."
Still silence.
"I worked every day thinking about your future. I wanted to come home more often, but—"
"But you didn't," the boy said.
His father looked at him.
"You missed everything," the boy whispered, voice shaking. "My first word. My first drawing. The day I fell from the bike. The day I won a medal. You missed it all."
"I'm sorry," his father said softly. "I thought… providing for you would be enough."
The boy turned to him; eyes filled with unshed tears.
"I didn't want toys. I wanted you."
That night, the father didn't sleep in the main room.
He stayed outside, under the open sky.
His mother told him, "He's hurting too. He just doesn't know how to show it."
The boy sat beside him in the dark.
They didn't talk.
Just looked at the stars — quiet, distant, and unreachable.
On the fifth morning, the father packed again.
The same bag. The same jacket.
The same feeling of someone leaving too soon.
He hugged the boy tightly. This time, the boy didn't freeze.
He held on, not because he wanted to — but because he needed to.
"I'll come again soon," his father said.
The boy didn't nod.
"Maybe," he said quietly, "next time... we won't be strangers."
His father swallowed hard. "I'm sorry I wasn't there."
The boy looked up, eyes wet. "Just… don't forget me again."
As the bus disappeared around the bend, he didn't run after it like he did when he was three.
He just stood still, his hand raised.
And this time, it was the father who looked back again and again from the window.