"Some feelings are too loud for silence, yet too quiet for words."
Time doesn't ask for permission to move on.
Seasons changed. The air in the village got colder. The mango trees no longer bore fruit. Even the birds that used to wake him up seemed quieter now.
It had been months since his father left again.
The house was back to its quiet rhythm — the creak of doors, the whistle of boiling tea, the radio humming old songs in the background. His mother had folded his father's jacket and kept it neatly on the shelf, untouched.
No one talked about him much now.
But the boy thought about him every night.
He had entered Class 7 now. A bit taller. A little more serious. He didn't play much like before. He didn't laugh much either.
But he started writing again.
This time, not in his diary — but in letters.
Letters addressed to no one, or maybe to someone who was always far away.
His teacher once found a letter stuck inside his textbook:
"Dear Papa,
Do you still remember the river where we skipped stones?
Do you know I stood there again today? Alone.
I wish you could've seen how tall I've become.
But maybe... maybe you only see my height, not how heavy my heart feels."
He didn't post them. He just folded them and kept them in a box under his bed.
Each letter was like a whisper into the void.
One day, while cleaning the house, his mother found the box.
She read one letter. Then two. Then three.
She cried quietly in the kitchen.
That evening, she handed him warm tea and sat beside him.
"You miss him, don't you?" she asked gently.
He nodded. No words came out.
"He misses you too, you know," she said. "He just doesn't know how to say it."
He looked down. "Why didn't he write me back?"
"He thinks sending money means he's doing enough," she whispered. "But what do fathers know about broken childhoods?"
One chilly evening, he stood outside watching the stars.
His neighbor's father had come back from the army after two years. The kids were playing, their dad cheering from behind.
He watched them, feeling a strange ache in his chest.
He wasn't jealous.
He was just… empty.
That week, a school project came in.
They had to write an essay: "My Hero."
Everyone wrote about cricketers, freedom fighters, some even wrote about their uncles.
He sat in silence for an hour, staring at the blank page.
Then slowly, he wrote:
My hero is someone I don't know well.
He is strong, I believe. Brave too. But I don't remember the sound of his laugh.
He gave me gifts, yes. But not his time.
Still… I want to grow up and make him proud.
I want to be the reason he feels like coming home.
The teacher read it aloud in class.
There was silence when she finished.
No one clapped.
But everyone felt something.
The days stretched into months.
And then, suddenly — a call came.
His father was returning for a short break. Two months.
This time, not because of a festival.
But because he was sick.
The news hit like a rock to the chest.
"He's weak," his mother said, trying to smile. "Just needs rest."
But the boy heard the tremble in her voice.
When the bus arrived, his father didn't walk down quickly.
He stepped slowly, hand gripping the railing, looking more like an old man than before.
His shoulders had dropped. His smile was faint.
And this time — the boy wasn't there to carry the bag.
He wasn't in town.
He was miles away, in his school hostel, chasing the dream his father wanted for him.
He only found out about his arrival through a call.
His mother's voice sounded small, "Papa's home."
The silence between them that night on the phone was long.
"I wish I could be there," he said.
His father only replied, "Take care of your studies."
Two weeks later, he got leave to visit home.
When he reached, the door was half open.
He stepped in quietly, expecting smiles, maybe even a tight hug.
Instead, he found his father lying on the bed, wrapped in a blanket, coughing.
His mother signaled him to stay quiet — he was asleep.
He walked in, sat near the edge of the bed, watching the face that once looked like a mountain. Now, it looked like a fragile hill, ready to crumble.
He placed his hand on his father's, slowly.
The hand twitched, then held his back.
"Papa," he whispered.
His father opened his eyes.
"You came," he said.
There were tears, but neither let them fall.
The next few days, they spent more time than ever before.
They drank tea in the morning sun. Talked about silly things. His father asked about school, friends, favorite subjects.
The boy told him everything.
For the first time — it felt like a father and son.
Real. Warm. Close.
But in the back of his mind, a voice whispered: "He's leaving again."
And like always, time didn't wait.
Two months passed.
One evening, the father sat on the courtyard step, staring at the setting sun.
The boy sat beside him.
"You'll go again, won't you?" the boy asked softly.
His father didn't answer at first.
Then he said, "Maybe one last time. Just to fix things... to secure your college fees."
"Can't we fix it together?" the boy asked. "Here? With you beside me?"
His father smiled faintly, eyes still on the horizon.
"Maybe I was wrong," he whispered. "Maybe I chased a dream that forgot to hold your hand."
That night, the boy didn't sleep much.
He kept replaying all the good moments.
The quiet tea mornings. The half-laughter. The soft hand-holding. The feeling of being seen — finally.
On the last morning, the suitcase stood packed again.
But the boy didn't cry.
He just hugged his father tight.
"Next time," he said, "stay for my dreams. Not just to build them."
His father kissed his forehead.
"I'll come back. For you. Not for the money. Just... for you."
As the bus left, the boy stood tall.
Not because he was used to goodbyes.
But because this time, the goodbye wasn't hollow.
It was a promise.